


Existential Headache

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-15 01:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13603110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Desmond has one and he is one.





	1. Chapter 1

There were times when Desmond thought, without much remorse or guilt or even alarm, _Maybe I could've been happier in a Templar controlled world._

Except, no, not really. It's complicated, he then explains to himself or to the ghosts of ancestors whose judgement he can feel over the ages and distances, _Not like they are now,_ he clarifies. _Abstergo is obviously doing it wrong and for the wrong reasons now, but the original reason. I could almost get behind the original reason they started it all._

The hint of belief and faith they had back in Altaïr's time, the whisper of peace they murmured in their last breaths. Order and control to stop a the worst war they'd seen in their time, to stop the bloodshed. Robert de Sable had been what he had been, but underneath it all he and all his kind had honestly wanted to make the world a _better place_ in their own way. Hell, it hadn't even been about the world in total, Desmond thinks now. Just Syria, Israel – the Holy Land they'd painted in blood, which they wanted to bring peace upon.

 _Safety and peace be upon you,_  Altaïr said when he entered a Bureau and when he left it, but it always echoed hollow to Desmond, a empty sentiment of a very unpeaceful man. Even when Altaïr grew older and wiser by his experiences and deathbed confessions, there wasn't peace to be had in Altaïr's mind or heart – he remained, for as long as Desmond was behind that particular steering wheel, chaotic man. Cold and assured, but chaotic.

Maybe it had been Al Mualim's judgement and guidance, how the brotherhood had been managed then, but they'd never brought peace anywhere. Every single death, every single assassination had just brought more disorder. Well, except maybe for that merchant, what's his name, the merchant king of Damascus. The world was _definitely_ a better place without him. Still, the rest, in varying levels…

Desmond still jumps whenever he hears church bells – not that he has, actually. But the imagination of them is enough, or distorted echo of a memory, just the whisper of bells is enough to make his heart pound and his body crouch defensively because now it starts, the chaos that he'd wrought. That Altaïr wrought.

Damnit all.

It got better later, sure, the Brotherhood under Altaïr's control was different but… it never stopped being instrument of more chaos than peace. Liberty, maybe, which is fitting enough – the Brotherhood after Altaïr was more into defending liberty and free will of man against those that would strip people of their freedom and choice. But sometimes, sometimes…

Sometimes people were better at peace when they were under someone else's control. Sometimes being watched over by tyrants, there is safety. And there's that saying about ignorance and all – of which Desmond himself is the poster boy.

His most blissful years were those between the Farm and Abstergo – when he lived the life of the Blissfully Ignorant, when Templars were just a made-up boogie man the Adults had used to control the Kids and the Farm was a brainwashing cult he was better off without and none of it, _none of it_ was true. Nothing is true – everything is permitted. Therefore, Assassins and Templars aren't true, and freedom and ignorance is permitted… right?

No such luck, but Desmond had been happier then. And, looking back on it now, he would have _remained_ happier there, living the quiet life of a bartender who honestly didn't know any better, and who refused to look back on his past because that way lay demons and things he did not want to comprehend never mind accept.

If the Bartender Desmond behind the counter of Bad Weather had woken up one day in a world under Abstergo's mind control… he honestly doesn't think anything would've changed. If, granted, if Abstergo did what the Templars were _supposed to do._

If they'd just put the whole world under Pieces of Eden enforced mind control and forced everyone to be peaceful. If they'd used their power and influence to stop people from fighting and killing each other. If they'd just concentrated onto making their dystopian utopia, then… then…

Would've been, could've been – in the end, didn't happen.

And now he's dead and worse – he's unleashed something worse upon the world. And the Assassins had made him care about the right and wrong of it. Gone are his days of blissful ignorance; exit the easy detachment and enter personal grudge. Abstergo had and hadn't done what he'd, secretly and quietly and never out loud, wished they would. Assassins wore him down until nothing but a sliver of his own personality even remained. And in the end Juno walked over him like the welcoming mat he'd become and now… what? Now what?

"Now what?" Desmond asks out loud, looking down to his burned hand. He's flaking ash into the white-grey space of where-ever he is now, some last fragments of his mind in the last seconds before his final death and dissolution? He's not even sure, but if this is death and afterlife, then Ezio definitely got the wrong idea of it.

 _Requiescat in pace,_  damnit.

There's something in front of him, almost like a sound but with echo of feeling, and Desmond looks up from his burned hand. Glimmer of gold stands in front of him, flickering like picture on an old cathode ray tube tv, and she looking at him. She's not smiling.

"What?" Desmond asks and squeezes his ashen fingers into a fist. She looks _sad_ and it immediately annoys him, makes him feel like he's done something to _disappoint_ her, and why does he even _care_ at this point if he does… "I did what you wanted, didn't I? I saved the world."

"But at what cost?" Minerva asks, her voice echoing into grey-white space around them, which reminds Desmond all too much of the Animus – and yet not enough. He knows the Animus, he knows the Animus Island, intimately, and this is not it. It's too real, this place – the _uncanny valley_ version of Animus.

"The one you brought me up for, right?" Desmond asks and shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He has his hood up, he realises, no memory of lifting it up. It makes it easier to look at her – there's always that tiny bit of confidence boost in the hood, echoed through time and generations. A known mask and semblance of anonymity, all in one. "I'm the sacrificial lamb on your altar and all that, the gift to appease the gods so that they'll save the world."

Minerva looks at him and her expression doesn't change, doesn't even flicker. "Yes," she then agrees. "I did. You were my instrument of future and freedom. That which you dream of, the world of peace – it cannot exist. I have seen this. Humanity, so as long as they have their free will, will never settle. This was our gift to you…"

Desmond frowns at her. Now she's reading his mind, great.

"…but no, I did not bring you up to be sacrificed," Minerva says and finally she looks away. "I brought you up, I showed you the way, so that you would survive. Should the sun burst and the earth burn, you would remain with your knowledge of past, with your knowledge of _us_ and from the ashes of the world we made, you would make… a different one."

She takes a step away and waves her hand – and there, in front of them, hangs Earth, a hologram of it. "We build you in our image," Minerva says. "And you build your civilisations to suit, with all the chains there in. We enslaved you and so you enslaved yourselves and each other, and in foundation of rough stone you build your temples. It is in your nature – the craving for higher power to show you the way... and freedom from it. That is how you were made."

She waves her hand and the earth spins – the sun a distant spot of light that in this grey-white space shows white. "But not you, Desmond," she says then and turns to him. "Not you."

Desmond says nothing, looking between her and the earth as in the distance the sun flares up and sends a burst of heat to lash out their way. There's a flicker of light that courses through the Earth's surface and the globe glows – the flare doesn't burn it.

"You crave nothing," Minerva says. "That was your only wish, wasn't it? Nothing. No Assassins, no Templars, no fighting, nothing. Of all in this sorry chain of death, you wished for nothing. Even now, you wish for nothing. All the urges you have are those insisted upon you by others. Save the world, fight for peace…"

Desmond's hands squeeze into fists and then open in his pockets. "I have wishes," he says, angry. "I'm not just a _puppet._  I can make my own damn mind – I _did_ make my own damn mind in the end."

Minerva looks at him and then away. "Yes," she agrees and the Earth disappears. "You did. Two of us enforcing our will upon you, and you made your own mind, in the end."

She's not happy about the way he made it, though, that's damn obvious. Desmond blows out a sigh. "Billions dead," he says. "That's what we would've gotten. And yeah, maybe I care only because people made me care, but I still _care_. Whatever Juno will do, I'll rather have she do it to billions of _living_ people than have the billions people die."

Minerva bows her head silently. "Death of billions in split of a second," she says quietly. "As opposed to thousand generations in chains. Which is truly better, Desmond? Which sum is greater – which weights the heavier. Dying free, or living forever enslaved?"

He doesn't say anything, looking away. "Humanity got out of slavery once," he says. "We'll do it again. What matters is that people _live_ to try."

The noise she makes is almost a laugh – a bitter one. "The time it will take for you to retain freedom and the time it would've taken humanity to re-establish itself after destruction," she says and looks at him. "Which do you think will take longer?"

Desmond doesn't have answer to that.

"The choice you made, Desmond," Minerva says. "Was made not for you or even for the billions that live now and would have died – but for those that will come after. How can you even make such a choice?"

It sounds wistful, rhetorical, even sorrowful. Desmond has a pretty damning answer for it, though. "In ignorance," he mutters and turns away. "Neither of you said anything about generations of slavery."

"Juno would not, and I could not," Minerva admits. "I tried, in my way, to show you. Our story is one of eons, and those eons were built on backs of human slaves. Past begets the future. Future is made by the past, and it is the past renewed that Juno will make."

They're quiet for a moment, both staring into distances in different directions, Desmond scowling and Minerva doing whatever. Yet again there's a person, persuading his mind into their way. Desmond knows – has always known – how damn weak he is to opinions of others, to peer pressure. The side effect of _wanting nothing_ from life is that it was damn easy to be infected by what others wanted. Like he was forever trying to fill some lack within himself.

In the Farm he'd always done what people wanted of him, what his father wanted, until that had gotten to the point where it started bothering people. Whispers of _don't you want anything for yourself_ then started persuading him another way, _don't you have_ dreams, _don't you have goals_ , until he decided that he should have one. _Aren't you curious about what it's like, don't you want to see the world,_  and then he left, ushered on by whispers of _don't you care_. Outside, the research he did gave the Farm and the Assassins another name, and he leaned on it the way he leaned on everything, trusting, calling the Assassins a cult and the Templars a story, a device of subjugation and oppression.

 _Shouldn't you get a job_ , someone asked and so he did, _aren't you happy_ , someone asked, and so he decided he was. Then Abstergo had him and _come along Mr. Miles_ , Vidic said and so he went, and _we need to go Desmond,_ Lucy urged and so they left.

 _Don't you have doubts,_  Minerva is saying now – and so he doubts himself.

"Did you make me like this, to be so damn biddable?" Desmond asks bitterly.

Minerva looks at him, and it feels as if she's looking right through his skin and into his core. "You are the culmination of generations of Assassins tampering with our technology," she says gently. "It has changed your ancestors, tampered with their genome, grinding out its edges. You are the result of freewill coming into contact with that which would stamp it, a fight that has gone on for as long as your kind has existed. You are almost beyond it, now."

Desmond scowls. "I beg to fucking differ," he says, thinking of Lucy – and he can see Minerva picking up on the thought.

" _Almost,_ " she says softly. "In every human there is strand of obedience – and conflicting it, a desire for freedom. This is what creates the greatest strife in the hearts of man, the imbalance of what they wish and desire. You lack either wish. You, Desmond, just _are_ as you _are._  And that makes you special."

"My utter lack of core personality and goals in life?" Desmond mutters. "Or death, as it is now…"

She smiles at her, somewhat admonishing. "You hardly lack personality, Desmond," she says and then steps closer. "I looked into future and saw time move according to your will," she says. "Because you are changeable, a inconsistent factor, and never a solid fact. You know this, inside, and perhaps it makes you uneasy. Whatever touches you changes you, and you change it in return. You fear your own influence - so it is simpler to leave it to others. So you wish for peace and ignorance and so you have never dared to stand firm and choose for yourself – you have never cared, for yourself. But now, for Earth, you cared and stood."

"Just not the way you wanted me to," he answers and snorts at her – to hide the uneasiness that's building up on the inside. That's… not how it worked. Right? Is it? "Isn't this all a bit pointless? I'm dead, I saved the Earth like you wanted and I released Juno like she wanted."

Minerva looks at him and shakes her head. "Exactly," she whispers quietly. "But what did _you_ what, Desmond? What do _you_ want?"

Desmond says nothing. He doesn't really see the point in the question - what does it even matter now? And yet it strikes him - had anyone asked that before? Had any be cared about what he wanted?

He could choose to go into the Animus - but if he didn't, Vidic would have him in medically induced coma or Lucy would get impatient and catty and Shaun would get extra pissy and sarcastic and Rebecca would get that that tone of voice, _it's not like the fate of the world is on the line or anything_ and his dad…

Desmond hadn't really cared one way or the other. He was annoyed and irritated and tired but he hadn't really cared. They wanted him to go into Animus, he had to escape Abstergo, he must learn to be Assassin... he needed to die to save the Earth, sure, why not. What else was he going to do?

"Was there another way?" Desmond asks finally.

Minerva looks at him, silent and sombre, for a long time. Then she bows her head. "I don't know," she admits. "If there was, I could not see it. But that is why I chose you - you, Desmond, are a shifting element. If anyone could have changed the result, it was you."

"I don't… I don't get that, " Desmond mutters and slumps his shoulders in simile of a shrug. "I've never understood it - what's so special about me?"

"You are the result of generations of actions. You are what was prophesied - and everything that came before you came _because_ of you, to allow you," Minerva says, her tone regretful. "Generations of Assassins tampering with our technology for you, to make you as you are now. All that time is linked together by you."

Desmond stares at her in silence for a long moment. "That's… a lot of effort for very little," he then says finally. "Could've done better than me, probably." Hell any one of his ancestors probably would've done better.

Minerva blinks at that. "You are not detached from that which made you, Desmond - you are the effect and the cause only exists to accommodate you. Without you the whole thing is meaningless - and with you it changes."

"I don't… you mean I'm the X at the end of a math problem," Desmond says slowly. "Without the X there is no math problem - and if the X is wrong -"

"Then so is the equation and it has to be changed," Minerva agrees, sounding almost relieved to have found a suitable metaphor. "Yes, precisely."

Desmond chews on it for a moment. "I still don't see why it had to be me," he says then.

"It didn't. It just was and was always going to be you and now it always will be."

Wonderful, Desmond thinks, more cryptic bullshit.

"It's not so cryptic if you think about it," Minerva says. "Time is but a page in a book and we the writing upon it."

"Pretty sure I've been wiped off the page now," Desmond mutters.

"Have you?" Minerva asks and looks at him. "Have I? Where do you think we are, Desmond?"

"... somewhere between life and death?" Desmond asks warily. At least that's what he hopes. "I'm kind of waiting for my life to flash before my eyes any moment now, to be honest."

"And perhaps it will," Minerva allows. "We are in your mind."

Desmond sighs. "I'm kind of figured that one out myself, thanks. How long though?"

Minerva looks at him.

"How long until my final seconds or whatever this is runs out?" he clarifies. How long until the last vestiges of his mind finally gave up and died?

Minerva blinks at his words slowly. "And why would it run out?" she asks curiously. "You, Desmond, you whose mind has traversed across centuries - why would time ever run out for _you_?"


	2. Chapter 2

If this is what happens to those who use the Pieces of Eden, why hadn't Minerva's people used them for this?

Desmond hangs in the cusp of time – weird, how familiar it all feels. Time is… stalling around him, maybe even winding back, and it feels a bit like coming home. Like being in the animus, waiting for the environment to load around him – might be just his mind reaching for a familiar  way of conveying the whole thing to him without breaking his head open like an egg but still… It seems so _simple_. Why didn't the Precursors do this? They got actually destroyed by the Sun, didn't they, they actually died – why didn't _they_ rewind back the time?

Minerva isn't there anymore to answer his questions though – she got left behind to… to the point where Desmond had started from. Ended up in? Whichever it was, she hadn't followed him and thinking it now… maybe she couldn't. Maybe they couldn't.

"Right," Desmond says out loud and lifts his hands while the white-grey space around him flickers and recoils around him. The right one is scorched through now – when he looks away from it and only sees it in the peripheral edge of his vision, it kind of looks like it's not quite there anymore. Like the ash has all flaked off and all he has left is the burned out skeleton. Maybe not even that. But at the same time he can feel it. It's still there. It doesn't even hurt.

"Right," he mutters again and waves the not-quite-existent hand. The white space fractures around it's wake in ripples, a surface disturbed – surface he can break through, if he wants to. But why and where and _when._

"What do you want, Desmond?" he mutters to himself. "For once in your life of indulgence and detachment, you got a choice now. What do you _want_?"

Hell if he knows. Even now, he just – he doesn't know. Part of him still doesn't care. After all the time and all the sacrifice – all the lives lived and losses suffered, he still feels detached from it all. All he'd ever been was a device for screening the lives of others – a fucking gaming console for playing out the history. He'd been… fine with that. Or he'd been not _not_ -fine. He doesn't really know.

He'd always gotten his purpose from other people. Lucy told him Abstergo was evil and had to be stopped and he agreed, it was easy. Shaun and Rebecca told him of the importance of knowledge and history and he agreed, tried to internalise their lessons. His dad… was still a bit of an asshole expounding on the importance of duty. That he had to do his part. Of course.

Desmond sighs and lowers his hands, crouching down on the… floor, whatever it is he stands on in this place. He still doesn't know. He tries to look for something, anything, that he ever truly wanted and all he can get is echoes of other people. Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, the Assassins of the future – no, the present. And yet nothing, nothing in his own voice.

He'd never wanted anything – and even now, with all the blood and mistakes and knowledge he just doesn't –

"Cipher."

He looks up and there stands Jupiter.

"Another nexus in time, this one…" the flickering golden ghost says, looking around. "You are travelling now. You have ascended beyond your mortal form."

Desmond leans his elbows on his knees and just looks at the old man – old god. Old ghost. He's not really sure if they're recordings or some sort of… AI's made in simile of the people they'd once been, or what they are – he's not sure it even matters at this point. Ascended beyond mortal form – Jesus _Christ_ ….

"You called me that right from the get go – _Cipher_ ," Desmond says, not really expecting an answer. "I didn't get what it meant. I still don't."

"But you do," Jupiter says and looks at him – and yeah, he can see him. "Your mind is like clay, it retains that which is pressed upon it. But you refuse to allow it. So you cushion the sharp edges of enforced memory with your ignorance, pretend you don't understand – but you do."

Desmond sighs and bows his head. "That doesn't really help one way or the other," he sighs and then rolls back, to sit on the non-existent floor, his ankles lazily crossed. "I'm the solution to history – great. X marks the spot and all that. I still don't know what I'm supposed to do." What he is supposed to _want_.

The ghost of civilisation past looks at him down his nose – not arrogantly, but with weird, ancient grandiosity. It's easy to see why these people were thought to be gods. Jupiter definitely stands like one – in comparison Minerva was comfortingly human. Juno, bit more like a demon, really.

"Your mind is like clay," Jupiter says again. "Let yourself be moulded."

"That's…" Desmond grimaces and looks down with a shake of his head. "That's kind of a messed up deal for me, you realise." And if he knows anything about himself is that he's just a little bit sick of being a pawn at this point. It's something at least.

"It's what you are, the cipher that unlocks time – which you have done, now," Jupiter says and waves hand – there are echoes there now, translucent white ghosts. Altaïr standing by Ezio, passing the Apple over. Connor, holding the Key. Around them, ghosts of Assassins Desmond doesn't know – Sef he recognises, the rest less so. Dozens of generations of ancestors.

"The cipher fits the algorithm," Jupiter says and looks at him. "And the algorithm the cipher. Look into your past, the past of those that came before you – look at what their last wishes were."

Desmond looks down, away from the ghosts. He can hear Ezio, from what feels like lifetimes ago – it _was_ lifetimes ago. Talking directly to him, as he laid down his arms. " _I have lived my life as best I could, not knowing its purpose_ …" and then, more damningly, " _Maybe you'll answer all the questions I have asked, maybe you'll be the one to make all this suffering worth something in the end_."

"Now, listen," Jupiter says as Desmond shakes his hanging head again. "There was never a purpose. Only a warning and a message and the one that heard it. We saw you from ages past – we saw the steps leading up to you. Amalgamation of gene and power and knowledge – you are everything we build up for and because of that you are nothing. A blank space for history to rewrite itself upon. That was all you could be."

And that's not messed up at all, is it? "Minerva sort of… indicated it was my choice," Desmond says, frowning. "Whatever it is, it was my choice but I can't…"

"It is clearer to you now that you're at last complete, and free to roam the path that you've followed," Jupiter says, looking down on him. "You see yourself for what you are, and it is inhuman."

Desmond shudders at that, slumping his shoulders. That's it, that's the thing. That's… that's the thing, isn't it. It's not _human_ to be like he is, so void of desires.

"That's just peachy," Desmont mutters. "Thanks for that, great pep talk. Helpful. Still doesn't tell me what you want from me."

Jupiter says nothing for a moment, taking few steps towards him – and then around him. "I want Earth to survive," he says then. "Minerva is preoccupied with time and preservation and freedom. Juno, the restoration and control, wishing to reclaim what came before. My field is not to clearly defined – I merely wished to save the Earth. I care not if we are remembered, our civilisation restored. I just wish for this planet, this precious bastion of life, to survive."

"Then, what I did, you agree with it?" Desmond asks, looking up. "Even if it released Juno?"

Jupiter pauses at that and looks up. "We searched the stars for eons for life," he says and waves his hand. Above them, there are black stars flickering in the white space. "Your people are doing the same now, I understand, looking. We too looked for any glimpse of change in the flicker of starlight, any evidence that might reveal existence of life beyond this planet. We found no such signs. Earth is unique, Earth is _special_. Earth produced life. I care not how this life continues, so as long as it does continue."

Desmond swallows and Jupiter walks around him at slow, stately pace. "But the future you made is a dark one," golden flicker says finally, his voice grim. "We wished for a better one. There will be war again, centuries of darkness and misery. Juno will not rest until she claims to Earth and Humanity will not bow to her for as long as there is fight left in them. Now, though, now your weapons far outstrip the destructive capabilities of what you had before. The war you have unknowingly wrought might yet consume the Earth. And unlike the Sun… it will leave no life behind."

Chill creeps into Desmond's spine and even before Jupiter conjures the image, he can already picture it. However the War between Humans and Those That Came Before went, they definitely didn't do it with nuclear weaponry, did they?

And there it is, the surface of Earth seen from orbit, a flickering hologram with flashes of light in it's surface and small specks of round clouds claiming sections of it. As Desmond watches from the view of a satellite, the sky is covered in dark clouds that thicken and cover the surface. Nuclear winter, he thinks. Wonderful.

His choices are starting to look better and better in hindsight. Or foresight, whichever it is at this point, if it even matters.

"So. Not the lesser of two evils, then," Desmond mutters and with a groan rocks forward, to his feet, standing up again. "I was supposed to save the Earth – just not like that. Problem is, you don't know how else I could've done it, and neither do I, so I don't really see what the hell am I supposed to do here."

Jupiter, his hand held towards the hologram of earth, looks at him. "Do?" he repeats. "Indeed?"

He sounds almost pleased. Desmond scowls at him and then pauses, rewinding. Do. Present tense. "Damnit all," he mutters and scrubs his hands over his face, probably leaving streaks of ash behind. It turns his stomach a little, how – how fleeting and fracture it is. But it is there and he feels it, and it's… it feels real.

He _wants_ to do something now.

But then the wishes he had for others, those felt real too, and they weren't ever his, not really.

"Did you put this in my head?" Desmond demands suspiciously, as if the thought is a physical thing – or maybe string of code or something – Jupiter had somehow sneaked into his mind, install it like piece of software. At this point it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if they could do that to him.

"You are beyond our ability to manipulate you, now," Jupiter says calmly and the Earth vanishes. "What you are now is only yourself. You are still clay, but even a clay has an identity and purpose onto itself – even reshaped into new forms, it will remain clay."

"Clay," Desmond repeats bitterly. Clay Kaczmarek, he thinks and then shakes his head and pushes the thought aside – that's… completely beside the point here. "Minerva could read my mind, you can do that too, I bet."

"This is your mind," Jupiter says plainly. "It's hardly matter of reading – you are open book, Cipher, you hide little. But I cannot write upon you."

Another book metaphor, Desmond thinks and shakes his head, turning away. Time is a page in a book and his mind is a book. Probably the algorithm that _made_ him is written on it too. Damn it, but he could use a drink right now.

Still, it does… feel different, now. His mind feels open, loose – unrestrained. The small flickering regret and desire, their feel like his own. Can he be sure they are? Probably not. But at this point… he's not sure anyone's mind is fully their own. People are always affected by other people. That's society and humanity in a nutshell. That, and regret, which at least he is sure about.

But wanting to fix the past and undo his own decisions doesn't really give him much to go on, in the end. He still doesn't know _how_. Minerva's message and warning came so damn late – if it had been ten years before, twenty, _thirty_ , then humanity could've done something about it. Few decades of Earth's best scientists working at it, they could've probably figured something out. And even if they hadn't managed to stop the Flare, hell, the could've build couple hundred bunkers to hide humanity and the important life on earth within them, preserve it for aftermath.

But they'd learned about it all too late for him to do anything other than to march up to that damn temple and _die_. Why did the warning come so damn _late_?

… Because Animus wasn't ready any earlier and he wasn't ready either. The X wasn't in place and so the calculation couldn't be completed.

Running his fingers over his neck and clasping them behind it, Desmond thinks, _thinks_.

"Minerva said time doesn't run out for me," Desmond says and looks at Jupiter. "You say I'm the cipher that unlocks time. This – thing I am, how much can I do with this? How far can I go, where can I go – how does it manifest?"

Can he _change_ the past, and if so, how far can he change it from?

"You are the Cipher," Jupiter says. "The algorithm is yours do as you will."

Desmond stares at him, his mind refusing to quite comprehend that. "Wait," he says, half objecting. "The – the whole thing?"

"The path led up to you," Jupiter says, giving him a somewhat pointed look. "You know this now. The sooner you stop shying away from it, the better. Wherever your blood has been, there _you_ have been. Now and forever."

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it with a snap. Then, very clear, he says, "Holy _shit_."

Jupiter inclines his head. "There is a reason we spoke to you," he says and turns away. "For generations your ancestors have mingled with our technology, breeding up a bloodline of power. You are as much kin to us and to our technology as you are to humanity."

Desmond's jaw works but his lips stay sealed – he can't say it. _Am I even human at this point?_ Because what's the point? Obviously he _isn't_. What is he then? The Cipher, apparently. Holy shit.

"It's terrifying, I know," Jupiter says calmly, almost sympathetic, though it has the same impact as stone trying to sound soft. "The first we saw you, we feared you. We thought to destroy you. But the very act of foreseeing you created you – you are irrefutable now. All actions will forever lead up to you, in whatever form you present yourself. You can make the past – and the past will forever –"

"Stop," Desmond says and he's almost surprise that Jupiter does, falling silent beside him. Desmond turns away, and if he was alive and embodied he'd probably be hyperventilating right now, his heart bounding, his head aching. Except he's not alive and he doesn't have a body to go into a panic attack in, and so he just sort of… reels mentally.

This is fucking _impossible_ , all of this.

But then, so is Precursor technology. And the Animus and it's fucking voodoo ways of looking into people's genetic past. Genetic memories – before Abstergo he didn't even think it was real, just pseudo science from bad scifi movies. No one thought it was real. It was just too damn fantastical.

Now Desmond finds himself wondering if Animus was possible because it _had to be_ possible, just to make him possible, because the fucking…  _historic existence paradox_ had to happen _somehow_. Because he saw the past, the way for past to be seen had to become a thing, somehow.

He kind of _wants_ to have a headache now, one of those splitting spikes through the brain he used to get before Animus Island, just to have something to stop that terrible, horrifying train of thought.

"I can go anywhere," Desmond says, his voice shaking a little.

"Anywhere your blood has tread, yes," Jupiter agrees, watching him. "But know this – no matter how you change the past, the past will yet create you. You will always exist – you cannot undo yourself. Time will always lead you here."

Desmond draws a breath and as much as he'd like to withdraw back to the blissful ignorance of questioning and denial… he gets it faster than he'd like. "I'll always _die_ December 21, 2012," he says slowly.

"You will always be here, now," Jupiter says.

Desmond swallows and nods. Well… he'd made his peace with that. Sort of. And all evidence kind of suggests death is not going to be the end of him, whenever it comes, however it comes – hell at this point he's not sure if he even _can_ die properly.

"Is – is there ever going to be anyone else?" Desmond asks then. "Like me, I mean – will there be other Ciphers?"

"Not that we have seen them," Jupiter says.

"But it could be possible," Desmond guesses.

"For them to exists, they would have to have been seen before," the golden spectre says frankly. "I cannot deny the possibility, for you yourself are example of the impossible given form. But we have no evidence of others. There is only you."

Desmond swallows and nods. "Right," he says and rubs his hands together. He feels a weird, mental chill – the white space around them seems impossibly big and empty, all of sudden. Even Jupiter isn't _there_ , not really. "Can you – can you tell me anything else? About how this works? How I – how I'm supposed to do this?"

"I have told you all I know," Jupiter says and turns away. "Much still remains in flux and the rest is unknown to me. Only you can discover it."

That's helpful and comforting. "So, uh," Desmond says and looks around. The white space is flickering – moving. He's… going _somewhere_ , he thinks and he almost can tell where, but it's only a half formed thought. "Where am I exactly, right now? Is this like, what, my DNA? Or am I in some network of the Pieces of Eden, or…?"

Jupiter considers that. "Yes," he then says with a empathic nod and turns away. His flickering form is starting to fade.

"Oh screw you too," Desmond sighs and leans his head back. The sky is sort of… coming down on him now, like animus environment collapsing with the completion of a memory sequence. "At least tell me if Juno can see me now, see me doing this."

"She sees you as we see you – from the past," Jupiter says, his form gone now, his words fading fast. "The future is up to you now… Cipher…"

"Here's hoping I make it a good one," Desmond sighs, and the world around him collapses in and folds within him.

It lasts forever.

It's over in an instant.

When Desmond opens his eyes, he's lying on something almost comfortable but not _quite_ , a slap of metal contoured to human spine with the edges of the Animus's synaptic ports digging into his back, and Lucy is standing over him.

"You okay?" she asks as Desmond stares up to her, uncomprehending. Above him there is a white ceiling, bracketed by white pillars, white _everything_ and for a moment he thinks he's still there, in that space between his mind and everything else, and this is some sort of hallucination.

Then Vidic harrumphs at him. "I told you he'd be fine," the Director of the Animus Project says dismissively and turns away as Desmond gapes at him in horror.

It's Abstergo.

He's in Abstergo.

Of all the damn places in time he could've gone to – he went to _Abstergo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is complete nonsense.


	3. Chapter 3

Desmond throws up on Vidic's shoes.

It's not voluntary – though later on he kinda wishes it was and he does take some vindictive pleasure in having frankly _excellent_ aim there. But it happens more or less on its own, and all without warning – one moment he's staring up and then the next his stomach upends and it's all over Vidic's fine leather shoes. The bile is bitter and vaguely alcoholic and makes Desmond cough like he's choking, and beyond it he's only half aware of Vidic crying out with dismay and then cursing him out.

"What is _wrong_ with him, Ms. Stillman?!" Vidic demands while Desmond bends over and dry heaves in his general vicinity.

"It must be some sort of adverse reaction to – to either the Animus or the drugs," Lucy says and Desmond can feel her hand on his back. "Desmond, try to breathe through it."

God, her _voice_. Desmond's not forgotten it, never could, but it hits him like physical blow. His body feels frazzled. He can feel echo of incredible, all consuming heat on his right palm, can feel the power of the Eye scorching through it – and when Juno said there would be no pain, she lied. It's as if his body is trying to feel it all at once now, the horror and nervousness and the regret and _eagerness_ and _oh god, I shouldn't want this as much as I do, why do I want to do this so much_ and yet -

Yet Lucy's voice, her hand, the body heat radiating off her as she comes closer and tries to see his face, hurts more.

Distantly, he remembers the warmth of her blood as it spilled across his hand.

"Breathe, Desmond, there you go," she says and Desmond gasps for a rattling, wet breath, his body shuddering with aching echoes of horrors of future past.

"Get him under control, Ms. Stillman," Vidic snaps, disgusted. "I am going to go clean myself up – and then we'll try again."

"Again – Dr. Vidic, Desmond clearly isn't reacting well to this," Lucy says, frowning, her hand on Desmond's shoulder now – it's hard not to lean onto it. "Introducing him to the Animus unconscious was obviously the wrong choice – I think we should give him a moment."

"We don't _have_ a moment, or do I have to remind you what it's at stake here?" Vidic says and then looks at Desmond. He makes a face. "You have an hour, Ms. Stillman, and then we will _try again_ ," Vidic says then, and marches off, leaving bits of bile behind.

"Asshole," Desmond mutters and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

"He's an acquired taste," Lucy says with a sigh, looking at his face. "Sit still for a moment; I'll get you some water."

Desmond looks at her as she turns and walks away – heading to his lovely little suite on the side. Then he looks around himself.

White walls, white floors – white everything. Abstergo doesn't remind him of anything as much as it reminds him of a hospital. A proper asylum, even, for proper madmen. Everything here is so damn pristine and clean, down right sterilised – it's not quite right. How anyone can _work_ in place that looks so… cold and uncomfortable and inhuman, he'll never know.

Maybe with the admission to Templars they removed your need for earthly comforts. Wouldn't surprise him in the least.

"Home sweet home," Desmond mutters. In a weird way, he'd almost missed Abstergo's hospitality while on the run. When he was in Abstergo there wasn't ever that constant fear of being found and captured again, anyway. And the schedule they had him on, it had been… easy to get into. Didn't hurt that he was probably at his most biddable here, doing as demanded with minimal objections. Going with the flow, even as it tried to grind him to dust.

Ugh, now even he's going all cryptic and poetic.

"Fuck," Desmond murmurs, running a hand over his neck and then looking around. He really is in god damn _Abstergo_. Why the hell did he come here? He could've gone anywhere, or anywhere _where his blood had tread_... so why the hell would he come here?

He was at his weakest, at his lowest, here. Why here?

Lucy returns from his prison cell with a glass of water, filled judging by the looks of it from the tap. She hands it over with an awkward, worried expression and Desmond accepts it. He's surprised his hand doesn't shake.

"How do you feel?" she asks, folding her arms.

"Like my innards are trying to crawl out of me," Desmond answers and then he drinks, sloshing the water around in his mouth to get the bitter taste out before swallowing and drinking again. It doesn't settle his stomach – it's still objecting to his existence loudly – but it doesn't feel like he's about to throw the water out again. "What the hell was that?"

"Adverse reaction to the Animus," Lucy sighs, looking at the machine – on which Desmond is still sitting. "It happens sometimes. We'd hoped that if we introduced you to it unconscious, your subconscious mind would acclimatise into the artificial reality it produces and we wouldn't have a physical reaction."

Desmond stares at her, and he can feel the slack, stupid look on his face.

God, she looks so… so alive. Obviously, but she looks like so much more too. She'd always been so faded when they'd still been Abstergo, so restrained and held back. It had eased a bit at the hide out, more so at Monteriggioni – she'd relaxed, let loose, became _herself_. Here, she's standing with a glass wall between her and her surroundings.

And he knows what she felt like with a blade run through her.

"Right, the Animus," she says awkwardly, misinterpreting his expression. "The Animus is a machine that decodes a person's DNA. Have you ever heard of genetic memory?"

She goes onto explain the Animus to him while Desmond nurses the water glass and tries to get his head in order. Reality is settling in slowly and irreversibly – he really is here, no doubt about it. The edges of the Animus are digging into the backs of his knees as his legs hang over the edge, and the metal feels too hard and too warm under him. He can still feel the echo of the heat over his spin – the Abstergo Animus always heated like nobody's business. At the end of the day, it felt like he was lying on a radiator, or an oven, with shutters right over his spine.

He really is here and not just here – but he'd just _arrived_ judging by the sound of it. Lucy explaining the Animus to him must mean that he just – when he woke up and then threw up on Vidic, that must've been the first time.

Altaïr's memories had booted him out, and so they had started from the beginning, and then Desmond had gotten to murder his way through the Holy Land in search of enough synchronisation to finally give the Templars what they wanted. Map of the world.

Had they actually _found_ anything using that map, though? It was so far zoomed out, the markers just sort of _thereabouts_ and it had been good nine hundred years ago anyway –

"Desmond?" Lucy is standing in front of him, watching his face. "Are you alright?"

"No?" Desmond says and looks at her – and then down the glass. Fuck, this is his first time – he should… be asking questions, probably. "Just, I don't know what you want from me."

She hesitates and then steps back. "Your ancestors were special people," she says. "That came into contact with things Vidic wants. We're hoping that through your memories we might find those things – we know some things happened, important things, but… the details have been lost. We need first hand accounting."

What you need is visuals, Desmond thinks, pictures, recordings, something to scan and examine and learn from. Shaking his head he sets the now empty water glass on the Animus and then runs his hands over his face.

Fuck, if they put him back into Animus, what will happen? Last time he had _lacked confidence_ to see into the memory they actually wanted, that had bought him time though he hadn't realised it back then. Now, now he's seen those memories already, lived through them – enough so that Altaïr has a nice little nook in his mind where he'd taken permanent residence. If he goes into Animus now, he might go straight to aftermath of that fight with Al Mualim and just give them the map, on first try.

"I'm sorry, Desmond," Lucy says. "I know this is confusing for you but it's how things have to be. Vidic will be back soon and you will have to go back into the machine. Do you think you can handle it?"

Hell no. "Think I could visit the toilet before?" Desmond asks with a groan. "I think I'm going to throw up again."

She grimaces and then motions to his cell door. "Right through there."

Hopping off the table, Desmond stumbles towards the rooms and straight to the bathroom. He doesn't throw up, though he kind of would like to – instead he dunks his head under the faucet in the shower and turns the water on. It gets all his clothes wet and he can just bet Vidic will be pissed about him getting the Animus wet but whatever.

Oh god, a shower. When was the last time he had a proper _shower_?

He probably doesn't have the time for that now, but it's tempting. Would get the stink of burned flesh and vomit off his nose, probably.

After letting the water run over his short hair for a moment, Desmond turns the faucet off and then he just leans into the wall for a bit, breathing slow and steady and trying to calm down.

He needs to get out of here, that much is obvious. Except, how the hell is he going to do that? This time he doesn't have Rebecca's voice in his ear guiding his way and blade at his wrist marking his path in blood, and Lucy is a _Templar_ for crying out loud. She'd "help" him leave, but only after he gave Abstergo what they wanted. Until that miraculous escape, the Tower would be like a damn fortress, every door locked, every camera on him, not a breath of free air allowed in.

"Why the fuck am I _here_?" Desmond mutters, grinding his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall. "What the actual fuck, Cipher?"

God, no wonder Shaun called him an idiot all the time. He obviously is one. His brain got him into this place, somehow, and if it was a reason then he sure as hell can tell why. And if there's a way out, some way he could just whisk his mind off this body and this time, then… it's definitely not revealing itself to him.

Swallowing, Desmond closes his eyes against the cool tiles and takes a breath and tries to do – _something_. Concentrate, will himself elsewhere, just fucking _teleport_. Even the white grey space of in-between would've been preferable – just anywhere other than the fucking _Abstergo_.

Nothing, not so much as a twinge, not even a hint of hallucination to speed him on his way to obvious oncoming madness. He's fully in charge of his physical faculties and there's some irony for you, he thinks bitterly and grinds his forehead against the wall a little bit harder. Fucking _do something_ he thinks at himself, at his mind, at the _cosmic mythical calculation_ he's supposed to be the master of.

Not a damn thing changes.

"Desmond?" Lucy's voice comes from the other room. "Vidic's back."

Fuck, Desmond thinks.

Then he pushes away from the wall and heads out of the bathroom.

Lucy looks at him from the doorway, blinking, her eyes widening. "Let's… get you a towel first," she says slowly, worriedly, and Desmond thinks, _Great_ _. Now she thinks I'm already losing it._

"Thanks," is all he says when she unlocks the closet for him and hands him a white towel. She doesn't suggest changing his clothes, Desmond notes to himself as he begins to towel his hair and neck dry. Funny – in the last, uh, _future_ months, he hadn't really gotten to change his clothes at all. Assassins and white hoods, after all.

Lucy takes him by the elbow and leads him back to the Animus – where Vidic is waiting for them, scowling. He has a clean pair of shoes now, and it looks like he's also changed his trousers. Someone's been in to clean the vomit off the floor too, it looks like. Damn, Abstergo works fast.

"Are you quite done now, Mr. Miles?" the bastard asks irritably. "We have work to do, important work, and delays like these will not be tolerated."

"Yeah, I feel loads better, thank for asking," Desmond answers and drapes the towel around his neck. "You're all heart, Doc."

"Ms. Stillman?" Vidic demands, ignoring him.

"I explained everything to him, Dr. Vidic," Lucy says, sighing. "I still think it's too soon – if he has another bad reaction while he's in the Animus, he might end up choking himself. I think we should give it a day."

"We don't have the time. If he has another bad reaction, we'll induce a coma on him and be done with the physical set backs," Vidic says and motions at the Animus. "Lay down, Mr. Miles and let's begin."

Desmond hesitates.

"Lay down or I will have you drugged," Vidic says slowly, enunciating every word clearly.

And if he did, there'd be no hope what so ever of Desmond escaping, one way or the other.

Desmond lies down, swallowing as he does. Lucy takes the towel off him without asking and he can feel the synaptic port at his neck, its circular edges digging into the knobs of his spine. His heart pounding, Desmond tries to stay still and not jump up as the Animus' visor smoothly slides over his face.

"I'm activating the Animus now," Lucy says. "Let's see if I can find where things went wrong."

Desmond closes his eyes and when he opens them, there is a DNA chain in front of his face. Lucy makes a confused noise and Vidic leans in, scowling, and Desmond blinks at the hud. Flickering and stuttering, the hud displays the familiar sequence of Altaïr's memories – but it's not all.

The arching screen is full of DNA chains and sequences, running this way and that, a whole mess of them.

"Is it supposed to do that?" Desmond asks, wary. He knows it isn't.

"The Animus seems to have problem pinpointing the Ancestor we want – give me a moment," Lucy says and then taps on the keyboard as she tries to clear out the screen and bring out Altaïr's memories. It works – for a split of a second. Then the screen dissolves back into dozens of chains.

"What is going on?" Vidic demands. "Ms. Stillman?"

"It – Desmond's genetic memory isn't as stable as we thought, it's –" Lucy trails off, and writes more on the keyboard.

Desmond tilts his head, watching the DNA chains spin idly in front of his eyes. He… he can sort of recognize them. Two of them, he sees now – one from his mother and the other from his father.

Altaïr at the beginning of his maternal line. His part in it is not as straight forward as the Animus made him out to be, but he's familiar, like an old set of clothes Desmond had wore thin and comfortable and knew as well as his own skin. Altaïr's DNA is a _mess_ of genetic manipulation. How deeply into the Apple he'd delved, how much from it he learned before leaving behind his memories behind for Ezio – and through him, Desmond – to find…

The mangling of his ancestral DNA begun with Altaïr's many experiments and research into the Apple of Eden and the marks it had left were permanent. Sef carried them away with him, and passed them on to his children and they to theirs, echoing into all the Brotherhoods that followed.

And there is Ezio on his paternal line, the thickest band, the longest chain – of all of Desmond's Ancestors Ezio was the oldest when he passed the torch to next generation, 54 by the time Flavia was born. Desmond can see the way using the Pieces of Eden had changed Ezio, slowly mutating him on the inside. He can see the moment when Ezio entered the vault under the Vatican, the moment he met Minerva – his DNA all but loops around the moment.

Flavia, then her children and on and on…

And then there Haytham and then Connor, Ratonhnhaké:ton and others before them. More bloodlines, connecting. By Connor's time, the changes in the DNA they shared ran deep on all the converging lines, and Connor got them from both sides of the family – the Kanien'kehá:ka had had their own manipulations done to them by their proximity to the Temple…

More descendants, ancestors, bloodlines connecting, tree branches converging towards the final result. The various Assassin Brotherhoods by the demands their secretive nature intermarried over the generations, and part of that was preserving the bloodlines of the Eagle Vision, trying to keep the special ability alive. There's Desmond's father, a tangled web of DNA, and his mother, a messier construction still but not quite yet there….

Not until the two massive lines collide into Desmond, into the finished product. The Cipher, completed.

Looking at it from the outside, it really looks like some sort of cosmic breeding program.

"Can't you clear it all out?" Vidic demands from what feels like a great distance away. "We've not had this problem with the other subjects."

"Other subjects didn't have the sheer immensity of Desmond's ancestry, Dr. Vidic – I'm _trying_ ," Lucy says in frustration. "The DNA chains are all mingling, I can't – it's like the data is corrupt. I think I have to reboot."

"Well, do it fast," Vidic snaps. "The clock is ticking, Ms. Stillman."

Desmond traces the DNA chains and think, ah. _That's why I came here_.

This is the Calculation – this is the Algorithm he is the Cipher of. He came here to see this, to properly see the whole thing. The timeline he has to work with, it's right there, in his blood – but he's too damn slow to actually understand it before he's seen it properly… and now he has. And now he gets it.

"I get it now," Desmond says, to no one in particular. No one listens to him.

"I think I have it now," Lucy says and Desmond can see her looking up from her monitor. "I suggest we should start him with a training program. Ease Desmond into it. It might clear out right DNA strands a bit – we still have a partial lock on Altaïr's genetic memories, enough to give us a render of his body. It might help keep things in order for Desmond."

"Do it," Vidic orders impatiently and looks down at Desmond. "We've lost enough time as it is."

And Desmond sinks into to the white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond is a leaf in the wind... of dna... ಠ_ಠ


	4. Chapter 4

For a moment, it looks like the training wheels Lucy is trying to load work – that Desmond is about to find himself in the white nexus of Animus' loading screen, with pre loaded tasks and tests for him to try out Altaïr's most basic abilities in. For a moment, he sees distant figures, faceless similes of people, soldiers and guards and women carrying urns.

Then the white _deepens_ into the more concrete white-grey, and the Animus's hud fades away, dropping Desmond somewhere below what the Animus could offer – off the program and into his own mind.

Desmond looks around himself and then up, half expecting to hear the voice of the Animus' guiding AI telling him what to do and how to do it – something he had and hadn't missed after Abstergo. He hears nothing – not the AI, no Lucy, no Vidic.

"Okay then." He'd escaped. For given value of _escape_. Back in the limbo of his mind – of the Algorithm. Only this time he knows what to do.

"You can't do this."

Desmond lowers a hand he hadn't realised he'd lifted and then squeezes his fingers into fist. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees the golden glimmer of another First Civilisation member – the last of the three. "How the _hell_ are you here?" Desmond demands.

"I am not," Juno says, half laughs – that soft, friendly, _human_ voice she spoke with at the Temple. "I am here the way of the others – I look to you through time. You are changing anything – you can't do this."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, eying her. He still can't quite figure out what he feels for her. Minerva and even Jupiter are easy – they're unknown, fearsome, _allies_. Juno is more complicated. He hates her and he feels sympathy for her and as much as he fears her he's also in an odd awe of her. More than anything else though, he just wishes she wasn't there.

"Looks like I can, actually," Desmond says and turns to her. "And I damn well _will_ too, and fuck you too very much. Because dying _hurt_ , a lot."

For a moment she looks puzzled, her eyes narrowing in confusion. "You – died?" she asks and then turns away. "That is – ah, the temple!" she realises and turns back to him. "You used the Eye."

Desmond blinks slowly at that. "You were there," he points out slowly.

"No, I wasn't, not yet," she says and waves a hand at him. "You have changed the time, it has not happened yet. The world for us hasn't burned even once yet, never mind a second time. You used the Eye and died? We weren't sure how…"

Desmond shakes his head slowly. "Whatever," he says, pushing aside the confusion, the sudden gaping maw of the _unknown_ and _incomprehensible_ that her words belied. "I am going to change history and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. I'm going to make sure you stay in that Temple and rot for the rest of the existence – that is," he says slowly. "Unless I figure out how to destroy the damn thing first."

Juno gapes at him. "Why are you so hateful?" she asks and then steps closer, imploring. "I only ever wanted what you want – to save this precious world. Surely you can't fault me for that, whatever my methods are –"

"Cut the crap, that's not what you want at all – well, not all of it. You want the world for yourself," Desmond snaps and looks her over. "You told me, you know, about what the Apples can do – what you can do with _people_ through them. Ten people believing the same thing under the Apple's influence can break a wall or grow a tree, wasn't it? What could hundred, thousand, hundred thousand then do?" he leans in. "I'm guessing we didn't number in _billions_ in your time."

How the hell it works, he has no idea… but he knows it does. He can feel it in his core, in his mangled, mutated Cipher DNA. It's the same power that made physical illusions and enforced one's will upon another – some ethereal energy that _thoughts_ produced which the Pieces of Eden, the Apples in particular, could give form. Given enough minds to think it and believe it – enough human _batteries_ to power it…

Juno's mouth closes and for a moment she stares at him in wonder. "Yes," she says then almost breathlessly and comes closer. "Can't you see – can't you imagine it? The things one could do with such power, with such _energy_? The marvellous things you could create? No longer would this world be subject to the whims of the Sun – no longer we would be chained to it!"

"At the low, low price of all humanity's free will," Desmond scoffs at her. "No fucking _thank you_."

Juno pauses, looking at him and he can just _feel_ her searching for another point of entry, another angle to push her agenda from. "You have seen through time – you can do what we never could. A testament to this power – and you know how it goes. Human lives are so short," she says with heart breaking sadness. "They live and in blink of an eye they die – but the things they build last for generations. Temples and monuments stand for thousand of years after those that fashioned were given back to the earth. The things they could build, together –"

"Funnily enough, lot of those _things that they built_ that last for generations, the monuments and temples, were also made by slaves," Desmond says flatly. "Or people as good as."

"And look them!" Juno says and suddenly they stand surrounded by holograms of monuments, some of which he knows, pyramids and temples and great statues, some of which he doesn't – he ignores them all. Still Juno presses on. "Can you imagine your world without such wonders?"

"Yeah, slave labour gets a lot done," Desmond says darkly. "Lot more than people with freedom to choose can manage. It's easy, when you don't have to worry about taking care of people – just throw bodies, or _minds,_ at the task and who cares how many die? They're just slaves."

Juno waves her hand, frustrated. "What are they going to do with their lives otherwise?" she demands. "Look at them, look at how many of them go through their lives not accomplishing anything, not producing anything –"

"If they do that's their damn choice. Not yours and not mine either," Desmond snaps back at her. "And you aren't taking their freedom to choose from them, not on my watch. I will fight you – and so will they. I'll make sure of it."

" _Fight_ ," Juno repeats in disgust. "Yes. That's what humans are the best at, isn't it – fighting, _killing_. They do it to each other and themselves more than anything – where they're not busy chasing other creatures to their extinction. That's what free will gave them – the freedom to kill and maim and destroy. And they do it relentlessly. You should know, you've seen it, haven't you? Generations upon generations of ancestors, butchering their own people…"

Desmond arches his eyebrows. "Going at building great things didn't work, so now you're leaning on how destructive people are?" he ask and shakes his head. "Man, you're really desperate, aren't you?"

The face Juno makes him is pure frustration. "And how can you blame me for that? What I want is the same thing what brings you here now," she says then. "I want to live. I want my people to live. Surely you understand that?"

As Desmond watches, Juno turns away, flinging her hands in frustration. "Our people were great, our civilisation magnificent," she says desperately. "But our arrogance was our undoing in so many ways – as was our softness. When your ancestors rose against us, we could have crushed you but we did not – we made you, we felt for you, so we allowed you your freedom. That, and our complacence – so great were we that we stopped advancing. Our technology reached a pinnacle that was hard to surpass – and so we stopped there, satisfied, _foolish_."

Juno turns back to him, almost violent in her fervour. "Thousands of years and we did not realise the power we had in our grasp – the power of human minds, working in perfect, harmonious unison. Had we known, had we realised it earlier, ten years, hundred, a _thousand_ …"

"Oh woe be you, didn't get to utilise your oppression and tyranny fully, how terribly sad for you," Desmond says, utterly unsympathetic.

"You are still restrained by the ideals of mortals," Juno says, disdainful. "Give it a thousand years and you will see. It's all so pointless; human lives so short and meaningless – while our work was that of eons, our existence one of millennia, our work that of _gods_ –"

"You aren't _gods_ , no matter what names you go by," Desmond spits with equal disgust. "You just came before and _died_ before – you just got a head start."

"We _created you_!" Juno snarls.

"And you still failed! Your time is in the past – why can't you just _leave_ it there?" Desmond demands.

Juno almost wrings her hands at him. "If we do not aid you then this world will burn again, can't you see? It will all be for nothing. If we do not help you and guide you, it will happen again, the world will burn again."

Desmond shakes his head. "No, see, I've been thinking about that," he says. "About how to stop the world from burning – about how to prevent it. There have to be other ways, but the main thing is that we need time to figure it out. Give it, say, that thousand years you mentioned and we would've figured it out. But you didn't give us that – you just led us by the nose, trail of breadcrumbs leading up to you. Instead of us putting our heads together and figuring something out for ourselves, we just had to use your leftovers, not learning _shit_ from it."

"We did leave warnings," Juno snaps at him. "Thousands of them, written in parchment, in stone, recorded in minds of men –"

"A calendar with an end date is not much of a warning," Desmond snaps.

"Minerva left recordings!" Juno shouts at him. "You must've seen them!"

"Yeah, they were very helpful, what with how they came to us just _few months_ short of deadline, _very useful_ ," Desmond snaps. "No, you can just stop – I'm done listening to you. And I am damn well done following your trail of crumbs to your leftovers – I am going to make my own way from here on out."

"But you cannot _do this_ ," Juno says again and leans forward desperately. "You don't even know what it is you're doing, you have no understanding. You have no right, _no right_ , to alter our design!"

"What the hell gave you the right to have _designs_ for us in the first place?!" Desmond shouts right back. "No, all evidence to the contrary apparently I have every right to alter your designs. Your damn designs _created me_. And I'm starting to get a little sick of you people and your damn designs by this point. Now get the _hell_ out of my mind."

Juno's eyes widen – and then she's gone, just like that.

Desmond blinks with surprise. For a moment he stares at nothing and then looks around, expecting to find her behind him, or at a distance away – but, no, she really is gone. However she'd tapped into the white-grey space and sent her message to it, it's gone now.

For a while Desmond just stands there, reeling in the aftermath of his own emotions. Then, after a moment, he releases a non-existent breath in a shaky exhale and straightens up, rubbing a hand across his neck, feeling almost embarrassed with himself.

That was… emotional. He's not sure he's ever felt that emotional before – he wasn't sure he _could_ get that emotional. Where the hell did that come from? Sure, Juno had fucked him over and he was justly mad about it, but that was… that was something else entirely. That was… a lot.

"Huh," Desmond murmurs, gripping the back of his neck. It's tense. If he had actual body, he'd probably be sweaty.

So that's… what conviction feels like. He never knew.

Then he looks up, worried and wondering. Is he still attached to the Animus back in Abstergo – had they seen this, had they heard? He can't see or hear of _feel_ anything and this place isn't the Animus, that much he knows for sure… but the Animus is based on First Civilisation technology, isn't it? And Desmond – and this place – is kin to it, apparently.

"Fuck," Desmond murmurs and runs his hand over his face. Well, if this echoed back to Abstergo somehow – it doesn't matter.

He's going to be changing the history anyway. And now he knows – what he does from now on does actually make a difference. Enough to make Juno lose memories of future. Enough… for the future change.

Lowering his hand, Desmond breathes in and out, his mind settling into this new, odd, _terrifying_ reality.

Then he turns away from where Juno had stood. He has places to be, times to meet.

Time to start.

Desmond closes his eyes and concentrates. Almost on its own, his mind conjures up the image of an Animus hud in front of him, DNA sequences whirling idly in white space. Ratonhnhaké:ton, Hayatham, back, back further, Flavia, Ezio – no. It's the wrong line. He wants the maternal line. He wants the beginning.

He wants _Altaïr_.

Something changes – it's quick, how it happens, instantaneous. Everything shifts a little and suddenly in the vacuum there is air now and in the zero gravity there is weight.

Desmond opens his eyes and the white-grey is gone. Instead there is just grey – grey stone, interspaced with seams of brown, crackled and speckled with dust and time and cracks. Lime stone and granite and marble and other things he can't identify. A temple or a tomb – build into a cavern lit with torches.

Desmond breathes out slowly and then looks up, up the façade of what remained of an ancient temple, with pillars and similes of ancient rooftops and for a moment Desmond _really_ misses Shaun and the Database because if this was the Animus under the watchful eyes of his old team of Assassins, there'd be a blip in the corner of his eye right now, informing of new Database entry full of details about what he's seeing.

But reality doesn't have a heads up display or tabs to click on and all he has to go on is a vague memory of dialogue he heard what feels like ages ago. He _thinks_ he recognizes it, anyway – the Temple of Solomon, or what remained of it. The Jerusalem Vault where the Templars and Assassins found the Apple of Eden. Which means –

And there he is, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, crouched on a stone ledge high above him, looking down. Malik Al-Syaf stands not far from him and his brother Kadar near him – they're looking down on the temple ruins, on the underground cavern it stands within. Desmond frowns, a little confused. He'd expected to find himself in Altaïr's body, like he used to in the Animus – but Altaïr is good forty feet away from him, his face hooded and grim and _strange_ as he looks down upon the scene below him.

Desmond turns and looks at where they're looking – because they're not looking at him. No, they're looking at the Templars – at Robert de Sable – who are busy in the work of unearthing their treasure. Or rather climbing up to it, seeing that it's on the wall about twenty feet above them, within the golden casket. The last time he'd been here, he hadn't understood any of it, still reeling from the whole kidnapping and Animus thing, but now, looking at the golden casket in hindsight…

"I want it through this gate before sunrise," Robert de Sable says. "The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those _jackals_ at Masyaf."

Desmond lets out a disbelieving laugh. It really is, the Ark of the Covenant – the Apple of Eden was found in the Ark of the Covenant. Well of course it was – where else would it be?

Of course, they must've talked about it in the memory, maybe even mention it out loud, but he'd completely forgotten about the whole thing. His first forays into the Animus had been so damn chaotic. Now though, now the significance hits him. Ark of the Covenant, where Moses had the Ten Commandments and all that. Did it really have the Ten Commandments in it? Or rather… _does_ it?

Seriously, reading Shaun's Database entry about this would've been _wild_.

"…am your superior, both in title and ability. You should know better than to question me."

Desmond looks up just as Altaïr starts to climb down, leaving behind furiously scowling Malik and very confused Kadar. The Templars don't notice, not yet, but Altaïr isn't even trying to hide – he's just walking right into what are pretty obviously bad odds for him. It's not just him against Robert de Sable, but him against Robert de Sable and about _five other Templars_. And Altaïr doesn't even hesitate.

Desmond stares at him and then feels like burying his face in his hands. Oh God damn it, he forgot what an arrogant _bastard_ Altaïr was in the beginning. The guy developed into such a monolithic figure within not just Brotherhood history but within Desmond's memories, the shadow he cast growing deeper and longer with Ezio's added into it – but here and right now Altaïr is twenty-five year old _ass_ about to earn his demotion back into a Novice. Great.

Can he affect this, though – stop Altaïr before he basically almost gets himself killed, _does_ get Kadar killed and earns Malik's nearly undying scorn and disdain?

Desmond reaches out a hand to stop Altaïr – but it's pretty obvious at this point that no one can see him, the Templars would've noticed him by now, standing as he is on the same level as they. Altaïr doesn't see him either, marching towards at a confident strut, about to walk right through him.

And then Altaïr stops right in front of him, frowning, hesitating. With the Assassin's hood up Desmond can't see his eyes – his own hood is up too, which doesn't help the matter – but he can recognize a line of unease at the corner of Altaïr's lips, a frown forming quickly into a confused grimace. He looks, tilting his head slowly, searching for something he can't quite see.

"Go back," Desmond says urgently, and unlike all other voices in the cavern, it has no echo – the walls do not reflect his voice back at him. It's _wrong_ somehow, but Desmond ignores it. "You're about to make a mistake. Back away, Altaïr, go back to Malik and Kadar and _think_ _this through_. Go back."

Altaïr hesitates, his hand inching towards his sword. "What is…?" he asks and then he suddenly whirls around and hides, smooth and silent, behind a near by piece carven stone, part of the collapsed temple – just in time to avoid being seen by the Templars. His back against the rock, the Master Assassin scowls at nothing, shaking his head and then running fingers over his eyes. But he made it in time.

Above, Kadar and Malik exchange confused looks, crouching out of sight as the Templars scan the shadows for movement – movement, which they can't find.

Desmond stands there in middle of it all, unseen by anyone other than Altaïr who is already trying to rub the afterimage of him out of his eyes – and just like that, history has been changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:]


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some bloodier-than-in-game violence here.

The Animus lied to him.

Desmond realises this while watching Altaïr, Malik and Kadar stalk the Templars and eventually attack them, first weeding out their numbers by dragging stragglers into shadows and leaving those that were left wondering what happened to them, until only Robert de Sable and the two carriers of the Ark remained – which is when the Assassins strike.

It's all very expertly done and Desmond would be pretty impressed – except he's kind of struck by how wrong all of it Animus got. The sounds and echoes of action, the weight of bodies being dragged away – that he knew. How little blood the Hidden Blade drew, that one he was familiar with as well, there is a reason why the blade had been the weapon for choice for thousand years and probably more and still _was_ in Desmond's time. But beyond that…

Altaïr is shorter than him.

Somehow, Desmond feels betrayed by this. He'd thought Altaïr, like Ezio, like Connor, was about – or exactly – the same height as him, about the same body type too, but even that is wrong. Altaïr is shorter and slimmer, build for speed and silence. How light he is on his feet almost unnerves Desmond – though Animus rarely had given him Altaïr's footsteps, he'd kind of assumed he _had them_. But no, Altaïr moves like a white wraith, completely without sound, even his sword sheath has been cushioned in way that makes no sound and it's weirdly off putting.

Desmond can sort of see why that was, why he's so wrong about this. The Animus had compensated a lot for him – and the Abstergo's Animus had cut corners left right and centre, that's why Desmond kept expecting Altaïr to have an American accent until he saw him again through and around Ezio, when he was in coma and halfway sinking into the Animus Island. Animus provided him with language he could understand and idioms that made sense to him – so of course, it provided him a body too. Body he knew – his own body, only wearing another's clothes and faces.

It makes him deeply uneasy though – because if he got these small details so completely wrong, what else he is wrong about? The history he'd lived and thought he knew so intimately – was it right at all, or another corner cut by the Animus in getting him where they wanted and needed him in that timeline of memory.

"Go, get the treasure!" Altaïr shouts to the others as he meets blades with Robert de Sable and Desmond is brought out of his own memories.

"This ends here, Assassin," the knight Templar growls, pressing on him – and now that too makes sense, Robert is taller than Desmond is, a mountain of a man who _towers_ over Altaïr's much shorter, slimmer form. "Killing my men, interfering with our work – you know not the things you meddle with –"

Kadar kills one of the Ark carriers and the other is forced to drop his burden to meet Malik's blade – two sharp clangs of metal meeting metal and he falls, Malik's hidden blade sliding out of his chest. Kadar and Malik waste no time in getting the Ark open and while Desmond leans in to look, Malik hesitates over what's there – the stone tablets, the pieces of gold and jewellery, artefacts wrapped in cloth and finally… the Apple.

"It is not yours to take!" Robert snarls and then pushes Altaïr away with a powerful thrust, sending him skidding back a few steps, his feet grinding on the sand. The Knight Templar rounds on Malik who makes his choice – and grabs the Apple. "Do not touch it, heathen! It is the treasure of the Templars; your wretches have no right to it!"

"And what right do you have to it?" Altaïr asks, even as he steps to stand between Malik, Kadar and the Templar. "To steal it from tomb of this land that you're a stranger and a foreigner on?"

"It was left for worthy people to find – you and your Master are not _worthy_ ," Robert says and as Altaïr gives a subtle hand signal, he attacks.

Malik turns to flee – to carry the Apple away with him – but Kadar doesn't, drawing his blade instead. "Kadar!" Malik snaps.

"Go, brother, take the treasure to Al Mualim," Kadar says as he steps to stand with Altaïr. "We will give you time."

"I do not need your _help_!" Altaïr snaps. "His life is mine, and I will take it alone – go with your brother, Kadar!"

Robert de Sable takes that moment, that minute slip in Altaïr's attention, and attacks. Desmond watches, helpless and begrudgingly awed, as the Knight Templar lashes out with powerful swings, the sort only a man that hauls around countless pounds of armour all the time would produce. Altaïr's sword _sings_ with the blows and it's probably only the quality of the metal that keeps it from outright breaking. Altaïr's strength isn't enough to keep it from bending, though, the blade pushed down and nearly across his own neck.

"I thought to spare your life to carry a message to your wretched Master, to tell him that the Holy Land is lost to him," Robert de Sable says as he presses down. Altaïr goes for a stab with the hidden blade and the Templar sees that coming too, grabbing Altaïr by the wrist and proving, again, his physical strength by easily pushing it back. "But to leave such arrogance to fester in this world would be a crime unforgivable. Die, Assassin –"

Kadar attacks then, lashing out with not quite the skill of Altaïr and Malik, but precisely enough to force Robert de Sable to defend himself. Malik hesitates, looking between the Apple in his hand and his brother, throwing himself into the fight – and then Malik lets the Apple fall to take up his sword instead.

Desmond's eyes follow the Apple as it rolls away a few feet, digging a soft groove in the loose sand as it goes. Altaïr is saved from death, if not from injury, and Desmond can hear his cry of pain as the sword drags across his shoulder before the Templar is forced to defend himself from the other two Assassins.

The battle that follows is ferocious. The Assassins are good, but the Templar is stronger, and armoured nearly from head to toe, and it's obvious the Assassins aren't used to fighting men in armour like that – they go for openings that aren't there, testing their blades against metal that refuses to give under their blows.

Desmond, in the mean while, goes to the Apple of Eden. He's already made enough difference by tampering with Altaïr's plans and he can't even be seen here – trying to _help_ them now would probably just make things worse.

"I suppose I could call you an ancestor too," Desmond mutters to the Apple. It gleams in the torchlight, but lays inert there, on the floor, half forgotten as the Assassins and Templar fight. "Apple of Eden – ha. More like Spawn of Hell," Desmond says to it and reaches for it.

There's a cry, Kadar, and Malik's shout of rage and Desmond looks up – Kadar is on ground, clutching at his side, and Malik is going at Robert de Sable like man possessed. On the other side Altaïr is clutching to his shoulder with one hand, trying to stem the flow of blood, gripping his sword with one hand. Between them, Robert de Sable stands, uninjured, but tiring.

"Lay down your arms," the Knight Templar orders, breathless, as he grips his broad sword tighter. "And I might yet spare your lives."

"Never," Altaïr snarls and attacks, Malik doing the same on the other side. Desmond watches, expecting – something that doesn't happen.

Malik gets an armoured elbow in the face and Desmond half expects to see the moment when the man loses his arm – but he doesn't. Instead, with Malik thusly distracted, Robert de Sable swings to Altaïr and knocks his sword aside and then –

Time stops.

Robert de Sable's sword is held to Altaïr's chest, just above the chain mail he wears under his robes, just at the collar at the base of his neck – almost slicing through the white cloth of his cowl. Inch forward and it would sink right into Altaïr's neck just above his collar bones.

Desmond's mouth opens and he stares, uncomprehending. That blow would kill Altaïr. There'd be no surviving it – if Robert de Sable got the sword just an _inch_ forward, it would slice right into Altaïr's windpipe and it would be over.

Slowly Desmond stands, looking between the actors in this play in front of him. Malik is frozen in the act of righting himself, his nose bloodied, probably broken. Kadar is trying to reach for his dropped sword while clutching onto the wound at his side – blood has stained his glove red, it gleams wetly in the torchlight. Altaïr's shoulder is red with blood and his sword his half flung off his hands by Robert de Sable's earlier blow – he's wide open to the sword about to claim his life. But they're all frozen, stuck between one moment and the next.

Time itself seems to hold it's breath as Desmond stands there, trying to catch up. He – he honestly hadn't thought the Templar would be this good. He hadn't thought…

His hand shakes as he runs it over his face. He did this, he caused this. Altaïr is still distracted from before and with him still in picture and Kadar alive and looking to defend his superior, Malik hadn't dared to run away – and none of them were prepared for the Templar, not really, not fully.

Now Altaïr is about to die – except he _can't_. Time itself froze to stop it from happening. Or, at the very least, it thrust Desmond outside its flow, stopping time for _him_. And he needs to _fix_ this. Somehow, he needs to make this right. But how? He's not even physical here, Altaïr could only barely sense him. Maybe…

Desmond moves before the decision is fully made, quickly reaching for the Apple of Eden – and it _explodes_ to his touch.

Everyone is thrown back from the shockwave, Robert de Sable falling with a great clatter of armour while Malik is flung to his side and Altaïr tumbles down to his back, knocked clear off his feet. The only one who stays somewhat upright is Kadar but that's only because he's already on his knees.

Under Desmond's touch, the Apple of Eden flares up, streaks of light lashing out at him and at the surrounding area, burrowing grooves into the sand. The light must be overpowering – the others are covering their eyes with shouts of shock and pain – but Desmond is captivated by it.

He can _see_ into it – it's not just light. It's – it's information and energy. An overpowering signal, radiating from the Apple's core – he can _see_ it. They're all connected – the Pieces of Eden, they all share a network, like cosmic internet but even more interconnected. All technology by the First Civilisation had been connected to each other – a security measure they introduced after the Rebellion, to keep humanity from stealing more of their technology. But it's so much more too, so much wider, so much _stronger_ –

There's a shriek of metal and wet, gurgling gasp and Desmond looks up from the Apple reluctantly.

Altaïr is on his knees in front of Robert de Sable, and he has his hand on the man's chin, thrusting his head back – a blade is sunk into his flesh. The Templar struggles against it for a moment, bloody air bubbling in the wound as blood gushes from his mouth, and Altaïr presses down harder, grinding the wrist blade into the Templar's throat.

Eventually, Robert de Sable grows still under the Assassin's grasp, his struggles ceasing.

"What – what is it doing?" Kadar gasps. "Malik, I can't –"

"I can't move," Malik groans. "Altaïr –"

Altaïr turns and looks – and the light of the Apple of Eden is reflected back from his eyes, making them shine golden. He's not looking at the Apple – he's staring instead right at Desmond from under the edge of his hood, his eyes wide open.

Startled, Desmond lifts his hand off the Apple – and the light disappears as quickly as it burst forward as the Apple becomes inert once more.

Kadar falls over with a gasp, clutching onto his wounded side, and Malik struggles to his feet, wiping at his gushing nose as he stumbles over to his brother. "Let me see it, Kadar," the elder of the Al-Sayf brothers says and bows to take in the extent of his younger man's injury.

Altaïr stands slowly, gripping his wounded shoulder. His eyes are still on Desmond – and in the darkness left behind by the Apple's light, his eyes shimmer golden. Eagle Vision.

"There is someone here," Altaïr says as he comes forward. "Someone unseen."

"More Templars?" Malik asks, spitting blood as he rummages through his belt satchels, coming out with a rolled up wad of cloth. "We should hide."

"I do not think it matters. It's not…" Altaïr stops as Desmond stands, and his eyes follow Desmond eyes. "I can only see him with my second sight."

Malik looks up, scowling, and then frowns, looking at where Altaïr is staring – at nothing from his point of view, probably. "Altaïr?" he asks warily. "What do you see?"

Altaïr scowls and reaches out a hand to touch – it goes right through Desmond, passing through his chest as Altaïr waves it around. "A golden figure," he says. "It came from the treasure, I think."

Malik looks dubious. "I see nothing," he says and turns back to his brother. "Perhaps you are seeing the after image of the light."

Altaïr sends him a glare and then blinks his eyes. The golden shimmer passes and Desmond watches with something like amazement as Altaïr's eyes fade to dark brown. He'd never seen that – what the Eagle vision looks from the outside.

Without the Eagle Vision activated, Altaïr can't see him. Desmond can tell the man is searching for him, but his eyes find nothing to hold onto – not until the gold glimmers back into his eyes and then his eyes find Desmond again and narrow suspicious.

"What _are_ you?" Altaïr demands, his voice a growl. Desmond opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

"Altaïr," Malik snaps at him as Kadar grunts in pain – Malik is wrapping his brother's waist with his own red sash, binding the cloth onto the sword wound he'd taken. "We haven't the time for this! This place is crawling with soldiers and we were hardly stealthy just now – we need to take the treasure and leave before more come. Whatever madness has stricken you, it will have to wait. How bad is your injury? Do we need to tend to it before we go?"

Altaïr grimaces, glaring at Desmond and then at Malik. He looks over Kadar, who is bent over and gasping after Malik's less than gentle first aid. Then, finally, the Master Assassin looks at the wound he'd suffered – a gash that had cut through his cowl and robes and into the side of his neck. "It's shallow, it can wait," Altaïr decides and rips his bloody cowl off.

Desmond blinks at the man's short hair revealed – and then Altaïr throws the cloth at the Apple of Eden, covering it up and then grabbing his makeshift satchel up, taking care not to touch the Apple itself.

Malik helps Kadar up and together they make their escape, Altaïr stalking the cavern ahead of them while Malik and Kadar follow. Desmond trails after them, wondering.

He made a difference here. Kadar had survived, Malik had kept his arm and Altaïr had suffered an injury, and Robert de Sable was dead well before his original time. But had he made things better?

If he had not touched the Apple, Altaïr would have died. It came a little too close for comfort, and now Desmond isn't entirely sure he actually knows what he's doing. No, he does know – he has _no_ damn idea what he's doing, anymore. And he obviously has no idea what the effect might be.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, Desmond looks to Altaïr who, every so often, glances back at him with glimmering eyes, as if making sure he's following. Desmond sets his jaw, wondering how he looks in Altaïr's vision – a golden figure, apparently. But is he like a point of interest seen in Eagle Vision… or like a member of the First Civilisation, seen in a hologram?

The Assassins make their way out the same way they came in, through the tunnels. They emerge not in Jerusalem like Desmond had expected, but some ways from it, easing their way out of a small opening in the side of a cliff, overlooking the city. There, after making sure they hadn't been seen, Altaïr leads Malik and Kadar into the shade of some trees and bushes where their horses wait – and there all three of them collapse, weary after long climb out.

"Tend to him – I can wait," Kadar says and Malik rounds up on Altaïr, whose shoulder gleams still wet with fresh blood.

"What you did down there was foolish," Malik says as he kneels by the Master Assassin to look at his injury. "Robert de Sable was not known to us for his weakness as a swordsman – what _possessed_ you to try and face him head on?"

"I could have taken him," Altaïr snarls.

"Obviously you could not," Malik snaps as he wrenches Altaïr's robes open to see the wound – it's deeper than Altaïr made it out to be. "We barely made out with our lives."

"But we did, and therefore your point is moot."

"I beg to differ," Malik mutters. "And rest assured I will be reporting all of your arrogant _stupidity_ to Al Mualim, step by step. We'll see what he thinks of it – I doubt he will be pleased."

Altaïr grimaces but says nothing, glancing up as Desmond hovers by them. Harrumphing, Malik mops at the blood on Altaïr's shoulder. "It is not life-threatening. We will bind it and hope it will not fester by the time we make it to Masyaf," Malik says. "Deserve it though you might."

"I am still your superior, Malik – mind your tongue and show some respect," Altaïr growls at him, but it's distracted – he's looking at Desmond.

"No, you have lost what respect I have had to give you – and you still stare at _nothing_ ," Malik says, glancing back. "Your golden ghost is still there, then?"

"I have not gone mad," Altaïr snaps at him. "I can see it – it touched the treasure, that is what made it flare as it did."

"And I still see nothing," Malik says and with brisk movements wrenches Altaïr's belt off to get at his sash. Using it, he binds Altaïr's wound, ignoring the Master Assassin's hiss of pain. "But I suppose we will know for sure when we make it to Masyaf. Can you ride?"

"It's only my shoulder – worry about your brother instead. He looks to fall over any moment," Altaïr mutters with a wince, and as Malik turns to do just that he shakily re-straps his belt on. Then he glares up, at Desmond.

Desmond stands over him, awkward. This – this is the part of the memories he never saw. The aftermath, the recovery, the anxious escape. Sure, he'd run through Damascus and Acre and Jerusalem what feels like dozen times in Altaïr's body, escaping the manhunt following a successful assassination, but this… He'd never seen this, the Animus always skipped over the consequences.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says awkwardly. "But believe me, things went actually better than I hoped." Injuries aside, everyone had survived and Altaïr hadn't shamed himself – not quite so badly anyway. It would have consequences beyond injuries, probably. But he still prefers this result to the original one. "And hey, Robert de Sable is dead. That's… something, right?"

Altaïr's eyes narrow dangerously but he doesn't answer.

"Yeah," Desmond sighs quietly. Kadar lives, Robert de Sable dies, history changes – and chances of Altaïr learning any wisdom and humility from his colossal mistakes goes right out the window. "Yeah. I think I fucked up too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanonical AU change #1; Desmond and his ancestors aren't actually identical to each other and they have actually like body type variance. It's not particularly important, but I like it. So there.


	6. Chapter 6

Desmond leans back against the baluster that separates the Mentor's office, sort of speak, from the rest of the Masyaf castle. In front of him, Altaïr, Malik and Kadar are giving Al Mualim their report on the Jerusalem Vault mission.

It had taken them _two weeks_ to return to Masyaf. Of course, that's just how things work in the real world, distances are a thing and travel takes time, especially when done by horse. Though Desmond had never looked into he now realises that Masyaf is actually way over _two hundred miles_ from Jerusalem. It didn't just happen via loading screen instantly – things just took _time._

In the two weeks, Altaïr's wound had been redressed and eventually Malik had burned it with a heated knife, same with Kadar's wound – and thankfully neither wound hadn't gotten worse in the mean time. That hadn't done much for their moods in the mean time, though, making all three all the more sour in their travel – and all the while Altaïr remained on edge with Desmond hovering about, and Malik remained on edge thanks to Altaïr's apparent fading faculties.

Desmond kind of regrets not _skipping_ ahead as it was, but after what happened at the Vault, he's not sure he dares to take his eyes off Altaïr. And he wants to see the aftermath – wants to see how Robert de Sable's death changes things, and how Altaïr's slightly better performance and Kadar's continued existence would be received.

He wants to see what Al Mualim would say and _do_.

"You meant to take the Templars head on, Altaïr?" Al Mualim asks, casting a glance at Malik who'd just finished detailing his version of the beginning. "Regardless of Malik's warnings and regardless of our Creed, you all but announced yourself to your enemies?"

"I did not, in the end," Altaïr says, casting Malik a look.

"But you intended to," Malik answers and turns to Al Mualim. "Said his way was _better_."

"And still I _did not_ – I hid, as per Creed," Altaïr answers. "And then we took our time in thinning the numbers of our enemies and getting the treasure, for all the good it did us."

"Hmm," Al Mualim answers, eyes narrowed. "And why did you choose to hide, then? Was it Malik's warnings that stayed your hand?"

Altaïr's cheek flexes as he grinds his teeth but he doesn't answer – and he doesn't look at Desmond, behind him. "In either case," he says through gritted teeth. "We waited until the Templars got the treasure and once they were through the gate we stalked them, and weeded out their numbers until only Robert de Sable and the Ark's carriers remained. That is when we struck."

"Kadar and I took out the ark carriers," Malik continues for him. "Our plan was for Altaïr to distract Robert de Sable while we stole away with the treasure. But it did not go that way."

"Yes, I can see it came down to battle," Al Mualim agrees, glancing at Altaïr's and Kadar's bloodstained clothes – both of which had been badly washed on the road, but still the rusty stains remain. "But you killed Robert de Sable in the end. That is good, that is very good, regardless of your methods and strife, you protected the Creed and the Brotherhood in the end, and you accomplished your mission."

Malik presses his lips tight together and Altaïr looks dead ahead, expressionless and the air is _thick_ with unspoken things. Kadar, who obviously has the worst poker face of the lot, clears his throat awkwardly.

"What else occurred?" Al Mualim asks, looking between Altaïr and Malik. "Speak."

"The treasure – something… happened with it," Malik says. "It's the true reason Robert de Sable is dead."

"Robert de Sable is dead because I put my blade to his throat –" Altaïr says.

"He is dead because like us, he could not move – only you could," Malik snaps and turns to Al Mualim. "The battle was a losing one for us – at best we should've been able to make our escape with the treasure Robert de Sable was… far more skilled than we anticipated, and killing him was never assured - none of us could hold our own against him, not even together. I thought we would lose, I thought we would die. He had his blade to Altaïr's neck, more than once – when the Treasure… it flared."

"It was like a sun had lit in the cavern," Kadar murmurs. "It was _blinding_."

"It threw us all off our feet – and then we could not move," Malik says. "Only Altaïr could – he took the opportunity to kill Robert de Sable."

Al Mualim looks between them before turning to look at the Apple of Eden, which is sitting on his desk, slightly dusty and dirty. "Fear not, my students – I do believe you," he says then and reaches for the Apple. "These Templar Treasures hold many secrets and there have been wishers that they have many powers one might consider even magical."

Desmond watches the old man carefully, waiting for him to activate the Apple – but he doesn't, holding it up for a moment and then setting it down. "I assume Altaïr was holding it?" Al Mualim asks, turning to the three younger Assassins.

"It was on the ground, at a distance," Altaïr says, uneasy.

Malik scoffs. "It was his _golden ghost_ that did it, apparently," he says, and when Al Mualim looks at him, he lifts his chin. "Altaïr has been seeing things since – though he will not speak of it now, for the fear of being thought the madman he obviously is. He told us, shortly after, that we were not alone in those catacombs, and that there was a _golden ghost_ there with us, which came form the treasure. Judging by his behaviour, it's followed us all the way to Masyaf."

Malik snorts, disbelieving, while Altaïr grits his teeth and Kadar looks away, awkward and uneasy – split between respect for his brother and his superior, he had not taken sides in that particular fight. Al Mualim looks between them and then looks at Altaïr. "A golden ghost," he repeats. "I assume you see it in your second sight?"

Malik snorts and Altaïr nods. "Yes, master," he says softly. "It is a shape of a man, though I cannot say more. I cannot tell its features, only that it has arms, legs, head, and it is there."

"Hmm. Has it spoken to you?"

Desmond arches his eyebrows at Altaïr, who is carefully not looking his way. He had spoken to Altaïr – a lot, actually. The Assassin had never answered, though, just glared at him, and eventually completely ignored him.

"It… speaks occasionally," Altaïr admits begrudgingly. "But it's gibberish; I cannot understand a word of it. Except for names."

Desmond frowns and then lifts his head. What?

"Names?" Al Mualim asks, eyes narrowed.

"The ghost knows our names, it has spoken Robert de Sable's name too, on occasion. But aside from that, there isn't a word in its speech that I can understand," Altaïr admits, and throws a glare at Malik who scoffs again.

Desmond opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. What? But he's just speaking… _English_ …

"Oh, for –" Desmond sighs and runs a hand over his face. They aren't speaking English though, of course they aren't. Robert de Sable might've been speaking English, though he has no idea what English he was speaking – around this time, it would be Old English, or something, right? The modern good old American English is basically a whole different, apparently gibberish, language.

Whether is the… whole cosmic whatever translating for him, or his brain is just so used to all languages turning into English for him that they just _do_ , he has no idea. But apparently it doesn't work both ways.

"Or it could be that Altaïr simply lost his mind at the light," Malik says, annoyed. "That light did something to all of us, but Altaïr fought through it. Perhaps in doing so, he broke his spirit."

"Does my spirit seem broken to you, Malik?" Altaïr snarls. "Perhaps a round or two in the sparring ring might prove the strength of my spirit – and _mind_ to you."

"Peace, my students, peace," Al Mualim says, all fatherly and patient. "I understand these things are confusing and alarming, but these treasures have terrible powers. Altaïr has a great gift of sight, I know it is hard to believe at face value but its power was proven not only by him, but his father as well. Do not discredit it off hand, simply because you do not understand."

"Thank you, Master," Altaïr murmurs, while Malik mutters apologies.

"Does that mean there really is a ghost among us, a spirit?" Kadar asks and looks around them nervously searching for one.

"Altaïr?" Al Mualim asks, turning to him.

Altaïr presses his lips together and then nods. "It is behind us."

For all of his disbelief, Malik too recoils forward a little, whirling around to look – though of course, neither he nor Kadar can see Desmond. Desmond still waves at them a little, chuckling. After all the disbelief aimed at Altaïr, it's a little satisfying to see them so spooked.

"Hmm," Al Mualim hums. "There are stories of whispers, visions… perhaps with this we might see the sight unseen."

He reaches for the Apple of Eden and Desmond turns his eyes to him, watchful.

He'd kept his distance from the Apple of Eden during the Assassins' travel, careful not to get anywhere near enough to trigger it. Still, its presence and proximity had sort of burned at Desmond – there's a connection there he can't really deny, kinship that runs deep. He doesn't think the Apple has any power over him, but if Al Mualim tries it…

The old man lifts the artefact and breathes out slowly. As Altaïr, Malik and Kadar shift nervously, backing away, the Apple lights up in Al Mualim's hand, beams from it's core reaching out like lens flares, spinning around the power at it's heart. Al Mualim lifts it higher and aims it at the baluster – at where he thinks Desmond is.

Desmond narrows his eyes, waiting for an impact – but there is none. The Apple shines and flickers but there's no blow, no spark, no –

"Heaven preserve us!"

Kadar and Malik both recoil and Altaïr lowers his chin, glaring at Desmond while Al Mualim draws a sharp, surprised breath.

They're all staring at Desmond now – Desmond who is sitting idle on the baluster, ankles crossed and hands braced against the stone, not exactly the most refined or graceful posture to be revealed in.

"Ah," Desmond says and wonders – do they see him golden too, or can they see him as he sees himself, with skin and features and all.

"This is the spirit," Al Mualim states more than asks, his eyes wide as he takes Desmond in, looking up and down.

"Yes, Master, that is the one," Altaïr says tightly.

"This Apple has greater power than I could've imagined," Al Mualim murmurs and then lifts his chin. "You have done well, my sons, bringing this great treasure to Masyaf and taking it from the hands of those who would abuse it. Certainly you have done well, and you have earned your rest and respite. Leave me now and I will see what I can learn of this."

"Sure you will," Desmond mutters and slides down from the baluster with a sigh. "Sadly for you, old man, I'm not here for _you_." He needed to figure out what to do about Al Mualim. On one hand, Templar…. But on other hand, his actions got rid of the _other_ Templars, and thus made things that much easier for the Creed in the future.

With Robert de Sable dead and no one in absolute control of the Templars… who knows what would happen.

"It speaks," Kadar whispers and looks at Malik. "What language is that, Brother?"

"None I have ever heard," Malik says, scowling, looking between Altaïr and Desmond.

"Do you understand it, Master?" Altaïr asks, looking between Desmond and Al Mualim.

"I cannot say I can, not off hand, but I dare say I will figure it out in time," Al Mualim says, his eyes intent on Desmond. "Leave now, my sons. Go with my thanks."

Altaïr hesitates and then bows his head with Malik and Kadar, who both quickly turn to make their exit. Desmond looks after him and then, partially out of spite and partially just to see what Al Mualim would do, he turns to follow Altaïr.

"Altaïr, halt," Al Mualim says, looking at Desmond and then at Altaïr, his eyes narrowed. "There are some more things we must address."

"Yes, Master," Altaïr answers, frowning a little. Malik and Kadar walk away while Altaïr takes stand in front of A Mualim's desk.

"Smooth, old man, very smooth," Desmond mutters, watching the Mentor of the Levantine Order. "Okay, let's see what you will do."

Al Mualim narrows his eyes. "The spectre follows you," he says, walking around his desk, the Apple of Eden in hand. "Has it been doing it the whole time?"

"I assumed it was following the treasure," Altaïr says, glancing at Desmond. "Which I had in my possession."

"It turned to follow you when you turned to leave – why do you think that is?" Al Mualim asks.

Altaïr shakes his head. "Perhaps… perhaps it knows I can see it," he offers. "I do not know, Master, I can't say I understand it in the slightest."

"No, you do not," Al Mualim says and walks closer, closer to Altaïr, to Desmond. He peers past them, down to the hall of the castle and then turns his eyes to Desmond. "There were Those Who Came Before," he says then, his voice low. "A great civilisation that existed long ago, so long that no memory of them remains, only myth and legend and these powerful artefacts that they left behind."

"Master?" Altaïr asks, confused.

"Have you heard of them?" Al Mualim demands to know and shows him the Apple. "The Pieces of Eden?"

Altaïr shakes his head. "Eden is only a story," he says in confusion. "A powerful story, but only that, a fable."

"Is it?" Al Mualim says and then holds the Apple at Altaïr.

Desmond moves forward before he thinks it through – Al Mualim is trying to use the Apple to control Altaïr, somehow, to enslave his will. Altaïr's immune to it, as are all of Desmond's lineage, but it's still a struggle to resist it and Desmond isn't about to just stand there and allow one of his Ancestors be manipulated.

Altaïr bows his head, his eyes growing bleary and confused – and then Desmond touches the Apple, intending to push it away, or just disrupt what Al Mualim is doing.

And, just like last time, the Apple of Eden explodes.

This time it isn't on the floor, though, it's held mid air by Al Mualim's hand – except then it _isn't_ , because like Altaïr who is stumbling back, Al Mualim is thrown off his feet by the concussive wave of force Desmond touching the Apple causes. And then the Apple is falling – and Desmond catches it.

He can feel the ripple of _reality_ descending on him as the Apple catches onto him, as it _latches in_ , its power weaving itself into Desmond, sinking into his hand like roots – and it's _the_ hand too, the one Desmond burned on the Eye in the Grandtemple. Desmond grimaces but he can't let go of the thing now – his fingers are sinking knuckle deep in the golden, glowing metal.

There is a _fizzle_ of something igniting, two currents meeting – Desmond's Algorithm coming into contact with the First Civilisation's _Designs_.

There's a build up, a flash of light – and then time stops.

Altaïr is caught in the act of trying to get to his feet. Al Mualim is seizing on the floor, his eyes wide open and blind. The baluster Desmond is holding onto is _melting_ under his touch, and the air around him is _twisted_ with the first spark of a massive, hot, explosion.

Desmond stares at his hand, his palm sinking into the Apple, and he's – and _he's_ …

He's about to destroy Masyaf.

He gets it the same way he gets that _sun rises_ and _day is a thing_ and _people need to breathe air_. He and the Apple are too much energy in one place, too much _manipulative potential._ Opposite branches of _something_ that goes little too beyond reality, getting too close to each other. Like fuel rods, about to hit each other.

He's the heart of an explosion that will wipe whole of Masyaf of the map, killing everyone and everything there.

"Fuck," Desmond whispers into the weaving, distorting air and the glow of destructive light right in front of him – and then he starts trying to tear his hand back, trying to pull it away from the Apple. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , come – fucking – _off_!"

It doesn't so much budge – his hand refuses move a single molecule from where it is, sunken half inside the Apple, and he hangs on the damn thing that is stuck in air like someone had nailed it in. Trapped in this cusp of destruction he'd, unknowingly, created. He's about to destroy probably a good chunk of the Holy Land in cosmic, temporal equivalent of a _nuclear explosion_ – and there's nothing he can do to stop it!

Except… it has been stopped.

Because it _can't_ happen.

Desmond hangs off the Apple, panting for a panicked breath he doesn't actually _need_ and looks around. Everything is still there, Masyaf castle and Al Mualim are still there, and Altaïr is still alive – frozen in time and about to die, but still alive. And he won't be dying either, because Altaïr lived to be well in his nineties, and he will again. He has to.

This can't happen because it _hasn't_ happened, because it _never will_ happen – because if Altaïr dies, Desmond can't exists and thus, Altaïr can't die. And so Masyaf can't explode.

Desmond draws a shaking breath and releases it slowly, then does it again. His hand is still stuck and the air is distorting with unbearable heat, but everything is still. It hasn't happened yet – and it never will.

He just has to stop it.

"Ohh-fuck, okay, okay, right, think, _think_ ," Desmond whispers, bowing his head and just breathing, his arm held at awkward angle on the stuck-in-air Apple of Eden. He needs to undo this. Damn, he's bad at this time travel stuff, undoing the stuff he'd undone – Jesus Christ, he's really _terrible_ at this. But he still needs undo this.

He needs to go back.

"Right, right, okay," Desmond breathes and closes his eyes. "Come on, come on, I can do this, I have to do this. Come on, let's do the time warp again."

"Are you _kidding me_?"

Desmond looks up in surprise and then almost falls over. The odd support he had in the Apple of Eden is suddenly gone and there's nothing holding him upright – and so down he goes, crashing face first into –sand? Except, it isn't really sand, it's something less, it's _fake_ , it's…

Digital.

"God damnit, Seventeen," Subject Sixteen says, crouching over him and shaking his blond head in dismay. "You make the _worst_ god ever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what


	7. Chapter 7

"So what was it this time? You're kind of smoking so I'll assume another explosion. Did you blow up the Vatican again? Uh, I know – the _Coliseum_ ," Subject Sixteen says and snaps his fingers. "Did you finally blow up the Coliseum? You're worse than Roland Emmerich movie, I swear. So which was it?"

"What?" Desmond asks, confused, and pushes himself to his knees. It's the Animus Island. How the hell is it the _Animus Island_? The place had been wiped, and Subject Sixteen… "Clay?" he asks carefully. "Clay Kaczmarek."

"Thaat's my name, I do _love_ to hear you say it," the other man says and stands up, rolling to his feet on a sinuous roll that doesn't seem to be quite affected by gravity. "Didn't expect to see you here this fast, I mean… time's relative and all that, but you were just here. So, was it the Vatican or the Coliseum?"

"I'm – not sure what you're saying," Desmond says slowly.

"The hand, the smoking," Clay motions and Desmond looks down. His hand is, indeed smoking – and burned all the way up to his shoulder, flecking ash and bits of itself everywhere. "It's kinda obvious you did the thing again – even if it wasn't for the smoking, then the falling flat on your face begging for a time warp is kind of a dead give away."

Desmond stares at him, shaking his head. "I was – I was just as Masyaf," he says finally. "I was…"

"I thought going back to Masyaf was a _bad idea_ ," Clay says and narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Holy hell, which cycle are you on? Am I – are you like – oh my god, no pun in tended, you're a _baby_ aren't you? You're early in the – ah, ah, ah!" he points a finger at him. "Is this the first time? Tell me this is the first time."

Desmond shakes his head again. "What are you talking about it?"

"You – here – now, is this the first time you're here? It is, isn't it, you've never seen this place before, have you? Oh, I know time got all fucked up for you, but this is new, isn't it?" Clay asks and then waves his hands. "Welcome, my _lord_ , to Animus Island!"

"I know what it is," Desmond says after a moment and pushes to his feet. "I didn't think it was still… a thing that exists, though. It was deleted."

"Was it? Huh, must've been an even earlier cycle, then," Clay says and lowers his hands, looking a little disappointed. "No grand tour then. Bummer. But this is still new to you, just not new new, if you think it's not supposed to be here. Or… very late," Clay trails off and frowns. "Where are you at, as time passes for you? How old are you?"

Desmond gives him a look. "Twenty five-ish?" he admits. "Are you going to explain what the hell is going on here, or are you just going to babble nonsense at me?"

Clay stares at him. "Damn you really are a baby. Baby god, this is something else," he says and leans in. "Do you even know what's going on yet? This is the first time we met after it happened, isn't it? And you're apparently fresh off the oven in Masyaf – was _that_ the first time you wiped a city off the map?"

"It didn't _happen_ ," Desmond says. "I got out of there in time."

"Still happened somewhere," Clay shrugs. "Things happening and being undone and happening anyway and all that – shit you're really early on this whole thing, you have _no idea_."

Desmond scowls at him. "How far along are you, then?" he asks, deeply unnerved about the fact that apparently Clay is from a future of his… whatever his existence is. Apparently he lives in _cycles_.

"Psh, I have no idea," Clay answers. "Last time I saw you, you were… kinda…" he makes a wiggly motion with his fingers. "Figuring out the whole doing multiple timelines at the same time thing. So I'm guessing by that point it's been at least few years for you. Probably decades."

That's not terrifying at all, Desmond thinks. "Have I figured it out yet?" he asks. "What the hell I'm doing?"

"Eh," Clay says and makes a _so-and-so_ motion. "You have figured out some stuff. You shouldn't touch the pieces of Eden, by the way. It's usually bad when it happens."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that one out at Masyaf," Desmond mutters. "Do you know why that happens? I could touch one before, it didn't try to suck me in and destroy everything."

"There's some limit there," Clay says. "You can sort of skim the surface of what the Pieces of Eden are, but when you try to go and tamper with what they do, the security measures kick in."

"Security measures," Desmond repeats.

"Yeah – against you. First Civ _really_ don't want you messing about with their stuff," Clay says and shrugs. "And they _really_ want you dead, so. You can sort of touch the Pieces the same way you can touch a ticking time bomb, but when you go to do anything to it, it will explode in your face."

Desmond stares at him in silence for a moment. "The First Civilisation want me _dead_?" he asks faintly.

"Obviously. You're, you know… temporal abomination," Clay says and gives him a look. "How is this news to you?"

"I've had pretty… civilised talks with them recently," Desmond answers slowly. "Minerva sort of sped me on my way to this, and then Jupiter was there talking about the Algorithm. Juno wasn't happy, but who cares – none of them tried to _kill me_."

"Must've been early for them too. Or later, or…" Clay frowns. "What do you call a later time that never happens."

"Future-past?" Desmond offers.

"Yeah, sure, that. The First Civ keeps up with you, somehow, from what I've gathered. They can see you do your thing and at some point they decided… will decide that they'd rather not have you do the thing, so… boopy trapped everything," Clay shrugs. "I suppose you could call yourself the Devil to their Holy Trinity. Bad time to be a god."

"I'm not a _god_ ," Desmond says with a scowl. "And neither are they."

"Semantics," Clay waves a dismissive hand. "You're shaping the world and time in your image. Sure, you're a little limited and completely dumb, but it's still more than the rest of us mere mortals manage. And honestly for all the times you fuck up, you're still making broad stroke changes. It's just… pretty miraculous. Kinda divine, really."

Desmond shakes his head and runs his hands over his face. "No," he says into his palms. " _No_ ," he repeats lowering his hands. "I don't want to do this. I don't have any idea what I'm doing."

"Oh, poor baby god, so lost, so alone," Clay says with mocking sympathy. "Don't think you have a choice at this point, Seventeen. Change time once, shame on you. Change time twice…"

"I'm _not_ a god," Desmond mutters. "I'm just an idiot who fucks things up."

"Well self awareness is first step on the road of… divinity, in this case, but really, I don't think you have a choice," Clay says and steps closer, looking at him. "The world is still there and it's still being destroyed. Flare of heat that consumes us all. Well, some of us. You still haven't stopped it."

"Not even in your time?" Desmond asks, half despairing. "Not even after _years_ of this?"

"Funny thing about humans and fire – let them play with it before they understand what it is and they tend to burn themselves," Clay shrugs. "There's a very thin line between giving people means to save themselves – and the means to blow themselves off the face of the planet. Don't think you're quite there yet."

"Blow themselves up?"

"The nuclear solution," Clay shrugs. "Infinitely worse during the Colonial Times, it turns out."

Desmond opens his mouth at that and then for a moment just gapes at him. "How the hell…?" he asks slowly.

"Century or so of tech manipulation, from what I figured," Clay says. "Leaving right bits of scientific knowledge to the right scientists, and all that. I _think_ you used the Templars for it, but I can never get a straight answer out of you about it. Anyway, nukes and such during era of great empires – on one hand, using nukes over the ocean, not terribly bad considering number of lives lost… on other hand, total collapse of global ecology once the oceans started having too much radioactive crap."

 "Right," Desmond says, his voice a little thin.

"Live and learn," Clay shrugs. "Trial and error. I think you learned something from it, anyway, but who am I to say, mere mortal as I am."

"Stop that," Desmond says and runs a hand over his chin, reeling a little. Nukes in Colonial Times – yeah, that's a bit bigger than just saving Altaïr from self inflicted mistakes. Holy shit. Go big or go home, apparently. "What else have I done?" he asks then and looks up. "How many of these Cycles have there been?"

"How the hell should I know – I'm not the time traveller here," Clay says and frowns. "Actually should I be telling you this – am I changing _your_ past in return now? That's taking time fuckery to whole new level, changing the time of the time travelling god."

"Stop _calling me that_ and just answer the question – what else have I done?" Desmond asks intently. What else had he tried which had ultimately failed?

"Oh, pfft," Clay blows a breath. "Cryptic warnings and all that, ultimately not helpful from what I've gathered. Giving people tech from the future – works sometimes, sometimes doesn't. The Pieces of Eden, you've exploded them a few times, couple times I think it was on purpose. This and that – I don't know about all of it. I don't think you talk about the worst shit you do, and considering the whole Nuke thing, what you think is _bad_ must be on a level of it's own."

"And still no joy?" Desmond asks. "Damn."

Clay shrugs. "It's not easy, manipulating the destiny of an entire world, it turns out," he says. "Especially if you're still trying to preserve the free will of all man kind while doing it – the two ideologies don't quite match, I think you'll see."

"I guess I will," Desmond mutters and sighs. Holy shit, he thinks and then sinks to sit on the artificial sand of Animus Island. "Sorry about dragging you into this," he says then. "Assuming I'm the reason you're still, you know… around and kicking."

"Assume away, but don't be sorry. I'm having the time of my non-life – though I would like to get out of here sometime in future, but you know, time travel and all, future is relative," Clay says and hops to sit beside him. "Not that the spiritual guidance counsellor thing isn't awesome, but I'm honestly kind of sick of this place."

Desmond thinks back to his first time there, thinks of Subject Sixteen lying on the ground, almost sobbing and sighs. "Yeah," he agrees and looks around. "How is this place here, though? Were not in the animus, are we?"

"Yes and no and also kinda," Clay says and waves a hand. "It's that layer thing you do."

"I don't do it _yet_ so you'll have to clarify a bit."

Clay frowns and rocks his torso back and forth, thinking. "It's like pages. Or folders on computer. This is just another one," he says. "It's not anywhere, but at the same time it's sort of everywhere – it's in that place where you're the Cipher. Just little below it."

"In… the Algorithm?" Desmond guesses.

"Just another part of it," Clay nods. "It's all code and calculation, we're just numbers, you and I, cosmic binary, but here you don't need processors to run the program. The temporal universe is the hardware that runs your software for you, you lucky little god, you. No electricity bills or anything, very handy that."

"Stop it," Desmond sighs and leans back. They're quiet for a moment, while Desmond tries to digest his way through yet another very Subject Sixteen-esque data dump and Clay rocks back and forth, apparently bored now. He'd brought Clay here, so he _would_ eventually bring Clay here. Hopefully later would be as good as soon, because right now Desmond has no idea how to do that.

"So, Masyaf is a mistake," Desmond says after a while.

Clay shrugs. "Well it _has_ been a mistake. It's too early on," he says. "Too far away, and the tech is too primitive. And who cares about end of the world that will happen in nine hundred years, anyway? You'll have better luck with that Prophet of yours," he says. "Bit closer to the matter at hand. And well versed in the cryptic nonsense of forewarnings from the past."

"Ezio," Desmond says. "You mean Ezio?"

"The first man in Italy with a gun – the first man who flew, too, when you think about it. Side by side Leonardo da Vinci himself. All that Renaissance Enlightenment," Clay agrees, hugging his knees and looking at him. "If anyone in the past could do anything that early on, it'd be those two, don't you think?"

Desmond thinks about it and… yeah, probably. Ezio certainly has a handle on destiny of civilisations. And _Several_ runnings with Pieces of Eden too. "What happens to Masyaf?" he asks then warily. "I made changes there."

Clay shrugs. "I don't know. You'll have to see it for yourself," he says. "You're the time traveller, not me. Go have a look."

"I still haven't figured out how to do that," Desmond admits. "It sort of happens on it's own, I don't seem to have much control over it."

"Have you actually _tried_ to control it?" Clay asks pointedly. "I don't call you a god for no reason, Seventeen – but a god that refuses to accept he's a god will never get his godly work done."

"Screw you," Desmond sighs. "It's not that simple."

"Isn't it – or did you just decide that it isn't?"

Desmond frowns at that, thinking about it. It… should be difficult, he thinks. He's travelling in time, he's changing history – stuff like that shouldn't be _easy_. But it sort of has been. Every time he _shifted_ from one place and time to another, it was usually instantaneous, like a blink. It just _happened_. And he kind of hated it.

It shouldn't be easy.

"I still don't know what I'm doing," Desmond murmurs and bows his head a little, clasping his fingers over the back of his neck and bowing lower. "Who the hell decided that it would be a good idea to give _me_ this power? I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't even know what I _want_."

"Yes, because that's what we want from a young god; clearly defined bias and ambition," Clay scoffs and reaches over the ruffle his short hair. "You're doing fine, Seventeen. You make mistakes and learn from them – and you undo them. All things considered, it's better than what most gods do."

"I'm not a _god_ ," Desmond laughs into his knees, half hysteric. "Stop _calling_ me that."

"Acceptance is first step to recovery," Clay says and pets his hair like he's a cat.

"Gods are all powerful and omnipotent, I'm definitely not."

"What kind of gods have you been hanging out with?" Clay scoffs. "Jupiter, Juno, Minerva – do they seem omnipotent to you, seeing as they are, you know, _dead_?"

"Well they aren't gods either."

"How is this the thing you get hung up on?" the other man mutters. "Accept your religious connotations, Seventeen. We're dealing with timeline that started when Adam and Eve orchestrated a rebellion against Eden and Roman gods still sort of walk the earth. Broaden your mind a little. You're the Father of Understanding, for… _your_ sake, really. One would think you'd have a slightly more open mind about this shit."

Desmond looks up to him. "I'm the _what_?" he demands, his eyes wide in horror.

"… ah," Clay says. "Yeah, that happens at some point. Surprise?"

Desmond's mouth works silently for a moment and then he buries his face in his hands. "I hate you," he says. "I hate _this_."

"I think that's kind of the pre-requisite of Chosen Ones, hating their own destinies, wanting to escape it. Something about humanising the monolithic figures of myth and prophesy, keeping them confused and dumb and humble. Hell, maybe you're even the archtype of that," Clay muses. "So, are you gonna ask _the thing_? I didn't think I'd be your grand wizard in this but I'll try my best to play my part. Go on, ask the thing. _Ask it_."

Desmond sighs. "Why me?" he asks obligingly.

"Just because, Desmond," Clay answers gleefully. "Just fucking _because_."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for coma related life support stuff.

Desmond wakes up with a pipe in his throat and a needle at his arm, a sensor strapped to his finger and machine peeping at his side – and judging by the feel below the waist, it's not the only thing strapped to him. After having lacked a real body for a while, feeling everything as a muted after image and not a real, concrete sensation, it all impacts him like a weight train.

He's lying on a gurney, in his body, in _life-support_. Above him is a familiar looking ceiling beams, metal and grating and above it the corrugated aluminium. Not Abstergo and not Monteriggioni either, and certainly not a cave – no, it's the Hideout, the first one.

For a moment Desmond stares, uncomprehending, at the ceiling while his tongue tries to work around the tube going down his throat.

Then his body seems to realise that there's a _tube going down his throat_ and he starts chocking. Jack knifing off the gurney like electrified, he almost rips the IV line off his arm in his haste to grab at the tube and drag it out – and the gag reflex he gets from the damn thing is almost strong enough to give him a goddamn seizure. The shudder that runs through him clenches every muscle in his body and he chokes, retches – and pulls.

The tube comes out, feeling a bit like knife dragging against his throat, and he throws it down, coughing against his knees.

"Desmond? Subject Seventeen?" a voice asks with shock, and then, "Shaun, Shaun get in here – he's awake!"

Still coughing, Desmond looks up as Rebecca comes to his side. She looks… pretty much the same as always, from the mullet and headphones down to the jumpsuit. The look on her face is odd though – Desmond doesn't think he's ever seen her look so worried. And it's aimed at him.

"Take it easy there, man," Rebecca says, just as Shaun _runs_ to the doorway, and grips at the door frame, staring. "You've been out of it for a while. And, uh, we're the good guys – you're not in Abstergo anymore. We got you out, and boy was that a bit of an adventure too, let me tell you -"

"Yeah, what him being a great big useless _lug_ for all of it," Shaun says and frowns. "Doubt he even remembers Abstergo, what with them sending him into a coma and everything."

"Coma," Desmond repeats, the voice cracking in his dry, scraped throat. The coma happened later, lot later – he was in full charge of his faculties in this place, wasn't he?

"Ah, water, water," Rebecca says and turns to get some from a dispenser someone had pitched by the door. "Yeah, you – we don't know exactly what happened, but you've been in coma about two weeks now, bit over, maybe," she says. "Drink slowly, don't want you throwing up now. Do you remember Abstergo – the Animus?"

Desmond accepts the glass and takes a sip. His hand shakes. "Yeah," he says, frowning, a little unsure. Yeah he remembers Abstergo – he remembers two versions of it, actually. One where he was really new to it and had no idea what was going on and just did everything he was told. The other where he'd just died and was there just for the Animus to show him a visual representation of the Calculation. "What happened?"

"Well, Desmond, they put you into the Animus, you had couple of bad reactions and then _snap_!" Shaun snaps his fingers. "Out like a light. They couldn't even do their usual coma bit, where they steer your mind through the memories like you're a character they're playing – there was nothing there to play. You were pretty much brain-dead, mate – still left to be seen if you stayed that way."

"Oh, fuck you Hastings," Desmond mutters and runs hand over his face. "They couldn't view my memories, then?"

Rebecca and Shaun share a slightly wide eyed look. "Yeah, not really," Rebecca says. "Lucy told us they could load the memories up, get the environment loaded up and actualized – but they wouldn't really _function_. Lights on but nobody's home, sort of thing – nothing moved, the memories didn't play out."

Desmond frowns. So, when he'd skipped back to past and to Altaïr, he'd… left his body empty? God, what happened to the _first_ Desmond, the past version of him – shouldn't he have been playing this body? Or inhabiting it, at any rate… had he just _erased_ him? And if so, how was he still… himself, without the past that made him?

Goddamn temporarily.

"Did they get the map?" he asks quietly and sips the water again.

Rebecca shakes her head. "… What map?"

Desmond looks up at her and then to Shaun. "Is Lucy here?"

"No, she's still in Abstergo," Rebecca says, shaking her head, and taking seat on the bench beside Desmond's gurney. "She helped us get you out after Abstergo put you in the storage – in their coma ward. Easier to save people from there than up from the tower, really. You know she's an assassin, right?"

"As are we, by the by. Shaun Hastings," Shaun says and motions to Rebecca. "Rebecca Crane. Though you seem to _know_ that already."

Desmond shakes his head and looks down at the glass. "So," he says. "I went into coma and after Abstergo couldn't make use of me, they brushed me under the rug," he mutters. "Why am I here though?"

"What, should've we just left you there?" Shaun asks, making a face at him. "I suppose it would've been easier for us. No harrowing rescue to bother with, would've been a nice quiet day instead, you know, of not getting _shot at._ "

"Lucy says that your genetic memories might give Abstergo what they want, and so as long as there's any chance they might be able to use you, it's a risk," Rebecca says. "They couldn't make use of your memories yet, but they probably would've figured out a way eventually. Or you could've woken up, which is even worse."

Desmond nods slowly. Or, he thinks to himself, Vidic realises that against his will Desmond wouldn't be doing anything willingly and so send him off to be with _allies_ , hoping that he'd wake up in friendly company and then delve into his memories willingly in said friendly company. Like he'd done with Ezio's memories.

"So Lucy isn't here," Desmond says and glances over them. If they get him into the Animus, would they be transmitting the data to Lucy in Abstergo, or would she appear, just in time to lead the project.

"She has work to do," Shaun says. "As do we all, which brings us the question – now what? We weren't exactly expecting sleeping beauty over there to wake up anytime soon."

Rebecca leans back a little, her knee jumping as she thinks. "The information Abstergo wanted from you, it's gotta be pretty damn important," she says then. "They're looking for the Pieces of Eden, and if your genetic memory has anything about them… we have an Animus here – a _better_ one than in Abstergo too. What do you say we have a look at what Abstergo was looking for?"

Desmond gives her a look, half weary and half amused. "That's nice. I just woke from one Animus related coma and you want to put me right into next one?" he shakes his head. "I see what I'm worth here."

Rebecca's eyes widen and she quickly waves her hands. "No, no, I didn't mean – sorry, that came out wrong. I didn't mean right away, or that you even have to, but like, if you feel up to it, eventually – it's a option."

"Rebecca, I doubt he even knows what a Piece of Eden _is_ ," Shaun sighs and pushes away from the door. "Abstergo is looking for artefacts that have powers, mind control among other things – they've had one or two over the years, but they keep destroying them in trying to figure them out and use them. There's more of them, but people don't know where they are because in past when people had them, they usually _hid_ them, because you know, great cosmic powers and all that. Not terribly good idea to just leave them lying around."

"Yeah, which is why they made the Animus project," Rebecca continues. "Because people these days don't know where the POE's are, but people in the past did. Some of us are related to those people. And genetic memories… are a thing. So," she shrugs. "If your ancestor had one or came into contact with one, then you can bet your ass they were trying to find it in your memories."

So Lucy hadn't told them about the map – and since Desmond wasn't supposed to know about it either… "Uh-huh," Desmond says and drinks the water again.

"Well, obviously he did. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was right _there_ when Masyaf was destroyed," Shaun says, bit of awe in his voice. "I'd bet slightly unreasonable sum of money on the chances of it having been caused by a Piece of Eden."

Desmond looks up. "I'm sorry – what?" he says. "Masyaf was destroyed?"

"You know about Masyaf?" Shaun asks, sounding begrudgingly surprised.

"I… saw a bit of it in Abstergo. It was where the Assassins had a castle, right?" Desmond asks, somewhat dubiously.

"Had indeed – it was wiped off the maps in a mysterious cataclysmic destruction," Shaun says and shrugs. "Nothing survived it, according to history books – except according to his _Codex_ , what little of it we still have… Altaïr was right there. Man stood right at the heart of the explosion, and lived to tell the tale. If that wasn't Piece of Eden related, I'd eat my hat. If I had a hat. Which I don't."

Desmond stares at him in horror.

"Mate, it happened nine hundred years ago," Shaun says, giving him a weird look. "Ancient history."

No, it happened couple hours ago. And Desmond was the cause of it.

"Right," Rebecca says. "How about we get you off that gurney and into some actual clothing?" she suggests, motioning the pyjamas Desmond is wearing. "Or actually maybe into shower. Hate to tell you, but the sponge baths we've been giving you haven't done you much good."

"You've been giving be _sponge baths_?" Desmond asks faintly.

"You were in coma," Shaun snorts and reaches over the turn the monitoring equipment off. "It wasn't as if we could haul you off to shower every time the stench got noticeable. You might want to get the catheter out too. Because, you know… you have one."

Desmond looks down to what he's motioning – a tube leading from under the bed covers into a bag hanging at the side bed. "Oh god," he says and covers his face in his hands and yep, he can feel the thing. "Please tell me neither of you put that in."

"It was done back in Abstergo," Shaun rolls his eyes. "We did however empty the bag when it got full. So, you know, we're already at unusually high level of intimacy here. No need to be embarrassed, now."

"Please go away," Desmond groans into his hands. "Both of you."

"Right," Rebecca says with a cough. "We'll be just at the end of the hall if you need us. Bathroom is right across from you. Shaun can get you some clean clothes."

"Can Shaun indeed?" Shaun rolls his eyes as he turns to leave. "Take care with that bag now, Desmond, we wouldn't want your piss all over the floors. Like the first time Rebecca emptied the bag."

"Shaun!" Rebecca cries, and hurries after him.

"What, _I_ had to mop it up – I am holding it against you _forever_ …"

Desmond groans into his palms again as they finally leave and the door swings shut behind them, leaving him alone on the gurney. "I'd like to go back to being immaterial incorporeal Cipher now, please," he pleads.

And oh, god, he'd destroyed Masyaf. He'd really destroyed Masyaf – it's in the _history books_. It really happened. He'd destroyed Masyaf.

In one single wrong move, he'd wiped Masyaf off the map.

It's a long time before he feels like getting up and dealing with the catheter.

* * *

The hideout is like he remembers it, with the storage area full of crates and boxes of who knows what, with Shaun and Rebecca – and Baby the Animus – set up in what Desmond always assumed was the office of whoever owned the place. There is one difference though – Lucy doesn't have a room or desk there. She'd never came in with him – according to Rebecca and Shaun Lucy had done all she could to let Shaun and Rebecca into Abstergo's _storage_ facilities, but she hadn't been present for it herself.

"It was deemed more important she remained where she was, imbedded in the high echelons of the Animus Project," Shaun shrugs. "Getting an _in_ with Warren Vidic took us years, we're not about to loose it just because of you, Desmond, as special though you may feel."

Desmond shakes his head. "So how did you get me out?"

"Oh, it was great fun. Bit of stealth, bit of hacking, bit of this and that – lot of gunfire, you wouldn't even believe it –"

"We dressed up as nurses and got you _transferred_ to a more secure facility," Rebecca says and leans back. "Still have the uniforms too – Shaun makes a surprisingly cute nurse. Aside from all of the bitching, I mean. There was a lot of bitching."

Shaun makes a noise a bit like stuttering cat at that. "We might've banged your head onto elevator doors a few time so if you have a head ache, don't worry about it," he mutters.

"… thanks," Desmond says, shaking his head. "For getting me out, I mean. I'd have hated to wake up at Abstergo."

"Yeah, I bet," Rebecca says and turns on her swivel chair to face him. "So, do you have any idea what happened with the Animus? Why you had such a bad reaction to it?"

Desmond shrugs. He didn't, he just… left. "I don't know," he says. "I threw up, my head spun, everything was just confusing and then…" then he was in Solomon's temple, changing history. "I don't know. It happened so fast."

"Did you have a headache?"

"Yeah, a bit like having spike run through my brain," Desmond says, though he can't remember if he did, actually. Maybe he did. It seems like ages ago now.

"You must have unusually sensitive synaptic activity for the machine to affect you that badly," Rebecca says thoughtfully, turning the chair a bit from side to side. "The Animus puts out its own signals – they're usually not strong enough for people to actually pick up on, just enough for the Animus to sort of manipulate you into the artificial environment, make it more concrete for you. I'll have to recalibrate Baby – I mean, in case you ever want to try again, but you totally don't have to."

"Right," Desmond says and sits down on the Animus' red couch, sighing. "So what's happening at Abstergo?" he asks. "With the Animus project?"

"Very little, currently. They're going through Lineage Acquisitions again. You were supposed to be their meal ticket, but turned out you gave them bit of an indigestion instead," Shaun says. "They're madly looking for someone to replace you now."

"Do they know of anyone else related to Altaïr?" Desmond asks, frowning.

"Not as far as we know. Your mum and you are the only ones we know who are confirmed to be related," Shaun says and turns to look at him. "And they can't get at your mum. You were the safest bet and here we are."

He's nobody's safe bet now, Desmond thinks, and rubs his hands together. Here his right hand is fine, no sign of the burn, but he can almost feel it there, just under his skin – the charred remains of his flesh, flaking off. "Right," he murmurs.

Had Altaïr actually ever seen the map, though? Had the Apple survived the explosion? Altaïr had still written a Codex and he'd obviously survived to have kids, but the rest… "You said you had some of his codex left?" he says then. "Can I read it?"

"It's written in Arabic and _code_ ," Shaun says and turns back to his computers. "Luckily for you, we have translations. Give me a moment."

He prints out two sheets of paper, a scanned picture of a yellowed page on each with a clean line of print next to it, translating what's said on the ancient parchment. "Pages eight and fourteen. We also have couple of his illustrations sort of preserved, but there's nothing in them to read – they're just assassination instructions and pictures of the hidden blade," Shaun says and turns away.

Swallowing nervously, Desmond sits down to read.

 

> **Altaïr's Codex, Page 8**
> 
> In the wake of our Mentor's death and the destruction of our Brotherhood, I have set out in search for answers. The truth will not change what occurred or bring our dead back to us, but it might bring the hearts of our fractured brotherhood to rest. There is so little we know, and what we know only offers us more insecurity.
> 
> We must _know_ more.
> 
> The treasure came from the Templars, they were the first that sought it – to that end they must know what it is, what terrible power it holds and where it came from. Tracking them down is proving difficult but there are hints, whispers of allies Robert de Sable might have had. Powerful men, leaders who have risen to their lofty stations either by manipulation, murder – or in some cases, respect. Nothing seems to link them, I am not even sure if they are linked by more than rumour – but of one I am sure.
> 
> There are records of their meeting – the Rafiq in Damascus has proof. This man and Robert de Sable were two of a kind.
> 
> Tamir, a black market merchant and dealer of death – I will begin with him and if need be I will squeeze the truth out of him along with his lifeblood.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Altaïr's Codex, page 14**
> 
> Why was I the only one to survive?
> 
> When the Dai of the Bureaus and those few of our Brotherhood lucky enough to have been away on assignments and missions ask, I tell them I was not there. I lie and tell them that my injuries stalled me and Kadar and Malik rode on ahead and thus I only saw the aftermath. Of the accursed Apple, I speak not at all. They believe me – and how could they not? Masyaf lies not even in ruins but in obliteration – surely nothing could have survived the devastation that befell it.
> 
> But survive I did and standing at the very source of that storm of destruction. I remember little of it, only the light, held aloft in the hands of that terrible wraith as it brought us so low. I should not have lived, but I did and I did so without injuries.
> 
> Why? How?
> 
> There are none I can discuss this with, none I can ponder this with and contemplate upon its implications. They plague me into the late hours of the night and into my dreams – every night I wake with scream on my lips and light in my eyes. That terrible, terrible light.
> 
> One day I will share this with one I can trust and I will finally weep at the death and destruction that goes so far beyond my ability to comprehend it. But not yet. Not today.
> 
> Today I ride for Jerusalem, and for last of the Eight. Jubair al Hakim, the record keeper of the Order of Knights Templar – their new Grand Master. He will, at last, put an end to my quest… if not to my questions.
> 
> What was that Golden Figure and why did it hate us so?


	9. Chapter 9

Desmond goes back to the Animus. Rebecca is thrilled and terrified and Shaun says something about scraping his brains off the walls and not being the one to but the catheter back in – but what else Desmond could do, really? He has to undo what he's done.

He can't just let Masyaf be destroyed, he can't just… Even if Altaïr managed to somehow do what he did originally, go through similar enough steps to find Maria, probably marry her and have kids with her, it's still wrong. Leaving Masyaf as he did – _not in ruins but in obliteration_ – would be wrong. He has to undo it.

Using the Animus as a jumping point is probably not necessary – if he tried he thinks he could just vacate his body and head off back into the Algorithm but using the Animus is easier, simpler and just… little less straining on his poor psyche, really. At least with the Animus he sort of knows what he's doing. Or what the Animus is doing to him, anyway.

"Can you send me back to the start? Solomon's temple, 1191," Desmond says. "It was where I ended back in Abstergo – where they found the Apple originally. I want to know what happened."

"I don't have any preloaded enviroments for that, so you have to give me a moment. If it's fresh in your mind though, that should make things easier," Rebecca says.

"Solomon's temple, 1191," Shaun scoffs. "Mate you're going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I'm assuming you mean the _First_ Temple, the _Holy of Holies_ , Solomon's original temple – which was destroyed in, oh, 578 _BC_?"

"Sure, whatever you say," Desmond agrees amiably.

Shaun turns around muttering curses about making a database on the fly and how he really would like to know before hand what he's supposed to be doing and really someone should've warned him. Desmond ignores him and looks to Rebecca who is screening through his DNA files. She's scowling.

"You got it?" Desmond asks.

"I got a mess," Rebecca says, shaking her head. "Really this would be easier with Abstergo's data, they got pinpointing timelines down pretty well. My Baby is better than their crap, but she's a bit too good at times – it gets me everything there is to get and in your case… it's a lot."

She turns the screen so that he can see it on the couch – and there it is again, the steam of his ancestral DNA, the Algorithm, in white and grey. Desmond looks it over, searching. "There," he says then and points. "That one's Altaïr."

"You can tell that?" Rebecca asks, turning the screen while Shaun glances at them over his shoulder.

"Saw it back in Abstergo," Desmond shrugs and lays back down, his head comfortably nestled between the synaptic sensors. No frying his spine on Rebecca's Animus – hers doesn't need the information from what his body actually wants to do when replaying ancestral memories. Her Animus gets all of that from the brain alone. "Can you load it up?"

"Yeah, give me just a sec – there we go."

Desmond sinks into the white again.

He half expects to get accosted by another spirit of the dead – Minerva to come out of the light to give him warnings and speeches, Jupiter to appear to expound on the destruction of the past and reconstruction of the future… Juno to appear to try and claw his eyes out maybe.

Instead there is the flicker of the Animus loading screen, white speckled with fractal patterns as the environment waits for the data to load so that it can start rebuilding an environment for him. Desmond looks around, for a moment worried. Is he actually just using the Animus here? Is Rebecca's Animus so much better than the Abstergo one that it _doesn't_ send him careening off in time?

And that's when the space around him starts to fracture into code and flashes of light.

When Desmond opens his eyes the white-grey is gone. Instead there is just grey – grey stone, interspaced with seams of brown, crackled and speckled with dust and time and cracks. Lime stone and granite and marble and other things he can't identify. A temple or a tomb – build into a cavern lit with torches.

Solomon's temple, reloaded – and there is Altaïr on the ledge above him, crouched down with Malik and Kadar at his back, Templars below him – and Desmond, standing there, in middle of it all. Right back where he started – where he started fucking up.

Except not quite… he has a hud now. There are white _icons_ floating about him – there's the synchronisation bar, there's the mini map, he even has a weapon selection menu, with empty hands activated. He's still connected to the Animus? He's not in Altaïr's body, but…

"Guys?" Desmond asks, glancing upwards and then around. The torches flicker and the Templars march forward and into the chamber where the Ark of the Covenant lies, but there's nothing from Rebecca and Shaun, nothing…

Except a Database entry, which makes itself known at the corner of his eye. [Ark of the Covenant,] it says in glowing white text. [Read the Database entry.]

Desmond eyes the thing somewhat dubiously, reaching out to click it when the Templars – when Robert de Sable – speaks. "I want it through this gate before sunrise," he says. "The sooner we possess it, the sooner we can turn our attention to those _jackals_ at Masyaf."

Desmond turns to look at them, and sees instead a golden shimmer in front of his face. It takes him a moment to realise what he's looking at – see the shape of a man, the outlines of a face hidden under a flicker of a hood, hands in his pockets – that's…

 _Him_.

That's the version of him that made a mess of everything. Altaïr had called him a golden ghost – and damn, he hadn't been kidding. It looks like a thing made of magical fireflies more than anything, flickering there vaguely see-through and completely eerie.

"…am your superior, both in title and ability. You should know better than to question me," Altaïr says above them to scowling Malik and begins his climb down.

Desmond glances back at him and then turns to face his own _golden ghost_. It doesn't look like the past version of him can see him – Desmond is standing right in his face, but there's no reaction from the shimmering figure. Probably a good thing – he can only imagine the freak out he'd have if this all happened without him actually expecting it.

Desmond reaches out a hand – he has to stop the other somehow, stop him from interrupting Altaïr and talking to him and thus changing the past. Stop him from ever touching the damn Apple.

His hand breaches the surface of the golden ghost of his own past – and the thing bursts like a soap bubble, there and then _evaporated_ in an instant.

Desmond gets only a split of a moment to gape at his own destroyed _ghost_ before Altaïr is there and Desmond has to quickly jump aside to let him pass unhindered – while in the corner of his vision, another pop up appears. [Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. Read the Database entry.]

Wary, Desmond clicks the icon this time – and world pauses around him. A little unnerved, Desmond watches as a window of sort opens up before him, full of familiar, strict print. He doesn't just get to see the entry – but he gets to watch it _change_.

He barely has the time to read the words of;  

> **Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad**
> 
> The only survivor of the mysterious Obliteration of Masyaf, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad build up the Assassin's Brotherhood basically from ground up, uniting the few remaining Assassins and recruiting estimated three thousand more during his nearly fifty year tenure as the Master and Mentor of the Assassin's Brotherhood…

Before they start flipping over right in front of him, turning into; 

> **Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad**
> 
> The Mentor of the Levantine Order of the Assassin's Brotherhood and the beginning of the Re-genesis of the Brotherhood, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad started a number of traditions still honoured today – including the re-forged Hidden Blade, the changed Initiation and, the last but not the least, the frequent run-ins with Pieces of Eden.
> 
> The first recorded user and Assassin scholar of an Apple of Eden, lot of the information he unearthed from the Apple is still used today by Assassins and Templars both – and this is the very least he contributed to History. In his time Altaïr, with a vision of Assassins spread across the world and living among the people, changed the Assassins Brotherhood entirely, turning what had been a basically convent of few into many guilds around early Europe, especially around the Mediterranean Sea…

Desmond shakes his head and turns the screen off, and Altaïr unfreezes and continues past him, not seeing him as he faces the soldiers ahead of him.

"Hold Templars," Altaïr says, his strut confident and arrogant as he just walks into what would in any other circumstances be called an _ambush_. "You're not the only ones with business here."

There's another Database entry as Robert de Sable turns, titled with the man's name, but Desmond ignores him, shaking his head and backing away further.

History had been changed. Or at least, returned back on track, he thinks. Altaïr would now get into a losing fight with Robert de Sable, get thrown out of the chamber and through the gates, leaving Malik and Kadar trapped in with the Templars. Kadar would die, Malik would lose an arm but gain the Apple and Altaïr would be, eventually, humbled by his own mistakes.

It… might be best to just leave it at that, Desmond thinks as he backs away into shadows, to lean back against rough sandstone. He feels kind of sorry for Kadar, but… Kadar had died here in the original, unhampered timeline. And his death had been Altaïr's biggest lesson.

Kind of fucked up to use a death of a man as lesson, Desmond thinks and runs his flaking, ashen hand over his face. Maybe – maybe he could… stop that one. It wouldn't be a big chance, right, saving Kadar. Just reach out somehow – only Altaïr could see him before, but with the Apple, maybe Desmond could…

Once Altaïr got thrown out of the room, and thus out of both harm's way and recorded memory maybe Desmond could just…

 _No_ , he thinks, no, the last time had started out small too – and ended up with him _destroying Masyaf_. Sure, it was the Apple that did it, and if he just doesn't touch it _too much_ then maybe he could just startle people enough to let both Malik and Kadar escape – but no. He can't risk it again.

Whatever Clay thinks, he's _not_ a God. He doesn't have the right to play with fate of so many people like that. In comparison Kadar is… Kadar is a small price to pay.

"I've seen enough," Desmond says quietly and presses into a corner on the wall, looking away as Altaïr attacks Robert de Sable, about to get his ass handed to him. "Get me out of here."

He thinks he sees Altaïr's head jerk back, sees the hood shift as he turns, as everything bleeds into white again, and Solomon's temple fractures into code and disappears. Desmond expects to wake up at the hideout, probably with very confused Rebecca and Shaun demanding answers about why the whole thing went the way it did, with him in his own body and all – but he doesn't.

The environment rebuilds itself around him and Desmond finds himself in Masyaf instead – in the Mentor's office at the head of the castle. The hud is there again, and there is the database entry for Masyaf too. Desmond ignores it, because in front of him is Altaïr in full Master Assassin regalia – and more. On his shoulders, there is the cloak of the Mentor.

He's also holding the Apple of Eden and it's glowing.

Desmond blinks as Altaïr's knees buckle and he almost falls over, taking support of the desk and dragging a shaky breath. The shimmer of the Apple fades into a more settled inward glow, and Altaïr shakily rights himself. He's older, Desmond notes with worry – Altaïr has more beard than mere stubble now. When is this? After Al Mualim, certainly, after Altaïr's ascension into Mentorship, but _when_ –

"For months," Altaïr says, though Desmond isn't sure he's talking to him or the Apple he's looking at. "I have been plagued with visions of you. Of Masyaf disappeared in the flash of light – with questions and demands and pleas and prayers. The future that shifts and changes as I glimpse it, at your hand. I hear whispers that tell me you will save the world – and they tell me to destroy you."

Altaïr looks up at Desmond, his eyes shimmering golden and Desmond just stares in horror. Holy shit, he thinks.

He definitely hadn't expected _this_.

"I'm… sorry," Desmond says after a moment, having no idea how to deal with this all of sudden. Sure, Altaïr had seen future with the Apple, had snatched up bits of tech and knowledge from it – but Desmond hadn't expected the man to see _him_. Less so for him to actually _do_ something about it.

Altaïr's eyes narrow, the power coursing in his irises like specks of gold, and he grips the Apple harder. "I have seen my hand writing of you in thousand ways," he says. "In thousand different Codices. I detail aftermath of the destruction you wrought. I record the gifts you give to scholars of future. The changes you make in humanity. I try and trace the steps you take even as you undo them. I count your miracles and damnations. And every moment the Apple whispers to me to _undo_ you. What are you and why are you in my head?"

Desmond bows his head a little. "I don't know what you've seen," he says finally, not even sure if Altaïr can understand him, but the man is asking for answers… Desmond doesn't really have to give. "It hasn't happened yet. It might never happen. You shouldn't be seeing it." Probably not anyway… but then again, Altaïr slept and ate and _lived_ with the Apple for most of his life, laying the groundwork for the future generations in his own, mutating genome. And if Clay is right, and the First Civilisation eventually decides they want Desmond gone…

Altaïr would be place to start that. Manipulate the bloodline into hating their future descendant, and maybe that descendant never happened.

"What _are_ you?" Altaïr demands, the Apple almost shaking in his hands. "Tell me."

Desmond sighs. "A failed failsafe," he admits, shaking his head. He's still not sure if Altaïr can even understand him, but… "Have you seen Those That Came Before yet?"

Altaïr doesn't answer, and Desmond continues, because what else is he going to do, really? "They foresaw me tens of thousands of years before you did and they decided that I would save the world for them after they were gone. They left behind clues and gifts, pieces of their Eden – traps really – for me to find and follow into my final destination, a Temple that would activate for me and save the world – and kill me in the process. And it did."

"Save the world from _what_?" Altaïr asks, his lips tight in half grimace. "What are you talking about?"

So… he can understand. Desmond falls silent, eying him warily, and Altaïr bares his teeth at him.

"The Sun," Desmond finally says. "In about nine hundred years, in my time, it will flare up again and burn the world. It's just something the Sun does every seventy-seven thousand years or so. It's what killed Those That Came Before and destroyed their civilisation, the _First_ Civilisation. They tried to stop it in their time but failed – they didn't have the time. Since then few of them have been working on another, future failsafe to prevent it from happening again. That's me and the technology they left behind. Like that Apple, there."

Altaïr shakes his head, confused but grim. "And you saved the world," he says. "You succeeded? Why then do they want your life?"

"Because in dying I became something… else," Desmond shrugs. "And now I can undo things in the past. And I am going to undo what I did."

"…You will destroy the world," Altaïr whispers in horror, his fingers clenching around the Apple. "Then –"

Before Desmond can say or do anything, Altaïr thrusts the Apple of Eden at him, slamming it against Desmond's chest as it flares up with power. Desmond looks down in shock and then horror as the Apple begins to sink into his chest, into his core – and the light bursts forward again, the terrible, terrible golden light. He can hear Altaïr screaming and then there's a flash, a shockwave…

And thus Masyaf is, once more, wiped off the face of the Earth.  

> **Database entry  
>  Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad **
> 
> The only survivor of the mysterious Obliteration of Masyaf, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad was the briefly the Mentor of the original Assassins Brotherhood before its complete destruction. In the wake of the Obliteration, he started a new Brotherhood, recruiting estimated three thousand men and women during his nearly forty year tenure as the Master and Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood…
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Altaïr's Codex, Page 1.**
> 
> In the aftermath of that accursed light I woke to find myself the only survivor. Masyaf, my home and all I had ever truly known was gone, not a stone or statue stood where I remembered. Of the people there was no sight or sound to be found – they were only so much dust and ash in the air. From Malik, my friend and confidante who rested in the library, to Abbas at the town gates… everyone had simply vanished. Evaporated.
> 
> And so Masyaf was erased from the world in one flash of hellish light and with it seven thousand souls. My brothers in the Brotherhood, my sisters in the town itself, all gone in an instant. I can only take comfort in the knowledge that their deaths came too quickly for them to even realise.
> 
> I did this.
> 
> I thought my strength and the Might of the Apple would be enough, that would be beyond the setbacks of its damned design. That I could undo the future that I saw, undo the possibilities and remove the threats before they had the time to be. That I had the power to change the future and defeat the destroyer where he stood.
> 
> And now, because of my arrogance, Masyaf is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr, you novice.


	10. Chapter 10

For a moment there is nothing.

Serene nothingness of the in between space of everything. No movement, no hud, no people, no devices or Apples of Eden, no Database entries or anything. Just white-grey nothingness that goes on forever and comes from whatever, calm and silent with not a flicker of manifestation or environment to be seen

Then Desmond screams into it, and the space around him recoils.

"Why, the _fuck,_ do I keep getting this wrong?!"

The words don't even have the decency to have an echo – they just disappear into nothingness and then it's like nothing happened at all – the space settles and there is Desmond, alone in the white.

"Fuck," he sighs and crouches down low, burying his face in his hands, one flesh and one ash. "Fucking Altaïr for _fuck's_ sake. Why the hell are we all so damn… _Argh_!"

He half expects someone to answer him. Minerva or Juno appearing out of nowhere to spout fucking exposition at him like quest givers in a fucking video game – it would just be the icing on top of the fucking cake right now. Or maybe Clay, swinging from nothingness to call him a shit god, because that's what he is; a fucking god of _shit._

But no one appears – the white space remains empty, closed off. Maybe it's reacting to his hostility or maybe his eviction of Juno from his head had more far spread consequences and people just can't hack into it anymore. That would, actually, be kind of lovely. Even though right now he would like to have someone there to point out all of his mistakes if not for any other reason than to shout back at them. He thinks he's at the point where just shouting at people would be extremely cathartic.

Fucking Pieces of Eden and their booby traps and fucking First Civilisation, trying to kill him. First they raise him up to be their saviour and now he's the devil in their play. And now his own ancestors want to kill him? Destroy him?

"Oh, just… fuck this noise," Desmond groans and then he laughs into his palms, his voice hysterical and reedy.

He wants the original Altaïr back, the asshole who grew up to be one of the wisest Ancestors Desmond had, who rebuild the Brotherhood to be something good and great despite it's not so sanguine beginnings. He wants the Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood, the real one – and then he wants to shake him a bit. He wants the original timeline, unhampered and solid. Because doing anything to Masyaf is obviously… not good.

Desmond's hysterical laugh runs dry and then he's just dragging hitched sobs against his palms. It takes him a while to calm down enough to stop but, hell, time is relative right? He can take moment to break down a little. Or a lot. The sum of _breaking down_ is probably relative too.

Drawing a ragged breath Desmond looks up and into the whiteness. Then he stands up, fast enough so that if he was in a body, it would probably make his head spin. Here, nothing happens, and when he paces back and forward, it doesn't have a sound.

Then he makes his decision. He wants the old Altaïr, and he's going to fucking _have_ the old Altaïr.

"Fucking _take me there,_ " Desmond growls at the Algorithm – and it does.

The white drains and stone grows around him, shadows descending from the high flung ceiling to cover every corner. A chamber, decorated with old furniture, chairs, bookcases – a library and yet not.

There, under a beam of dusty light is a chair and on the chair there is Altaïr – old, tired, at the end of his over ninety year old life, clutching onto the last of his memory seals. There is no sight of the Apple – either it was destroyed at Masyaf or Altaïr has locked it in its vault. Either way, it's nowhere near enough to be a danger.

It's just the two of them, now. Desmond looks his ancestor over and the anger he feels… withers. Altaïr is just sitting there in the darkness, not a single torch to light the chambers around him – all alone. His beard is white, his face weathered and worn by age and hard use, and he looks all too thin and frail for the robes of a venerated Mentor.

Desmond sighs.

Altaïr who is about to die wasn't… it wasn't what he wanted.

Altaïr notices him and barely lifts his grey chin. "So many years," he says, his voice rough with age and wear. How long he's been sitting there, waiting for his death of thirst and starvation, it's hard to tell – but it's not far off now. "So many since the loss of all I knew. Now, at the end of it all, you choose to come back to me?"

"You're not the one I wanted," Desmond mutters bitterly. "I wanted the first version of you."

Altaïr chuckles, it sounds like rustle of parchment. "All my life I have feared you and hated you and now I am not the one you want? What a blow to suffer and so late."

"Shit," Desmond sighs and runs hands over his face again. Fucked up this too. Is the original timeline gone now? Is it completely inaccessible? Goddamn it all.

"Will you tell me what it all was for?" Altaïr asks wearily. "Why did you try to change my history?"

"You know I'm not from this time," Desmond says.

"The Apple had shown me many things – and you yourself told me," Altaïr says. "I have not forgotten."

"You… still had the Apple? It wasn't destroyed with Masyaf?"

"It too had its part to play – like us, it cannot be erased. Tell me why, please, while I have the time to know."

Desmond sighs and runs his hands down his neck. "I would be explained it to you if you would've just given me time – why the hell did you have to do that?!" he demands then. "What made you think it was a good idea? Masyaf would still be there if you'd just listened!"

"I was impulsive young man with head full of nightmares and visions," Altaïr says. "And you had just told me you'd rather the world burned. I feared it might be my only chance – I had tried to summon you before. I knew it would only work that once."

"For fuck's sake," Desmond groans. "And you couldn't just give me a minute to explain?"

"I'm asking it now," Altaïr says with all the patience he never had before. "Please – explain."

Desmond scoffs at him and takes a few pacing steps to the side and then few more back. "In about nine hundred years – no, it's closer to eight now… I'll save the world from a solar flare. It's a burst of energy the Sun puts out, it burned the world once already in the time of the First Civilisation – the Ones That Came Before. It happens again in my time, and with their technology I stop it. But there were consequences."

He looks at Altaïr who peers back at him, his face calm. "The Ones That Came Before gave me a choice," Desmond continues. "Either I save the Earth and in so doing release one of their own who'd been imprisoned, Juno… or keep her chained and watch the world burn. They didn't tell me how bad it would be – the terrible things she'd do. There were billions of lives on the line. So I released her." Desmond shakes his head with a sigh. "Sacrificed myself and saved the world for her to claim and enslave."

Altaïr says nothing for a long moment, digesting the words slowly. "And now you seek to undo your decision," he says finally. "You came back far to do it."

"I need the time. I want to do both, I _need_ to do both," Desmond says desperately. "Save the world and keep Juno chained, maybe even destroy her. She's everything we Assassins stand against – slaver and manipulator and enemy of free will. I have to stop her and save the world and I can't do that with what _they_ left behind, especially not now that they've turned all their devices against me. I need something of new, something humanity will build. And I need centuries for that to be possible and done on time."

"…we, the Assassins," Altaïr repeats softly.

"Yes, _we,_ the Assassins," Desmond agrees with a feeble laugh. "You're one of my ancestors, Altaïr. One of many, first of many. That's why I came to you."

Altaïr sighs, long and drawn. "It's a bloodline," he whispers. "All those people I saw, the preparations – all for a bloodline."

"Leading up to me, yeah," Desmond sighs.

Altaïr shakes his head, confused. "Why do they hate you so – why are they trying to stop you?"

"Juno. She can see me from the past – she knows I'm going to stop her. If it's all of them and not just her, then it's probably because if I get my way, everything they were and had is going to get wiped out," Desmond says. "Over the centuries we rely on their knowledge and technology too much. It's… changing us, and not in a good way. I'm the proof of that." He looks to Altaïr. "How much have you seen?"

"So much. Too much," Altaïr answers wearily and shakes his head, slow and tired. "I have seen things of you that made no sense – now I see it all in a different light. You are still so young. I have seen you ancient and eternal and terrible, so many reasons to fear you… but you're but a boy now. You do not know what you're doing."

Desmond's face twists, anger and sorrow mingling. "In comparison you're an old man," he mutters and turns away. Old man at death's door. "God damn it."

"God who swears by another," Altaïr says and shakes his head. "But then you're no god, are you? Nor are you a devil. Come closer, my sight is not what it used to be, and I wish to see your face."

Desmond drags a hand across his eyes to wipe away tears that are only partially imaginary, and then he goes closer, to stand in front of Altaïr – to kneel at his feet. "I was trying to help but I keep fucking it up," he says wretchedly. "Masyaf wasn't supposed to be destroyed."

Which begs the question of where exactly they are right now, since it _was_ destroyed on this timeline. Had Altaïr rebuild the place? Or at least build the vault under the remains of the castle? Why?

Because it happened, and it was always supposed to happen.

"Supposed to," Altaïr repeats, looking down at him from under the shadows of his hood, his withered face strangely gentle, despite the life of hardship and loss. "There is no _supposed to,_ nothing is meant to happen. It merely happens. The hardest lesson to learn for any man, one I think you should already know. There is no destiny. Things do not occur on someone's order. They just… occur."

"But they do happen on because of reason," Desmond mutters, sitting back on his feet. "You didn't die at Masyaf because of me – because in order for me to be a thing, you needed to live long enough to have children, to write your Codex, to teach the Brotherhood their new way. Just to make _me_."

"So selfish you are, so self centred," Altaïr sighs and closes his eyes. "If dreadfully truthful. Yes, no matter how many times you destroy Masyaf, you can't destroy me, any more than you can destroy yourself."

Desmond shakes his head. "I don't want to destroy you – I didn't want to _destroy Masyaf,_ " he grits out, guilty and aching. "It was all a mistake, a damn… stupid mistake."

Altaïr doesn't deny it, opening his eyes slowly and looking at him. "You make mistakes. You learn from them," he says. "Though this time the mistake was as much mine as it was yours. Do not go where the flow of time would take you and let the drag of it's eddies sink you – you are not subject to its currents. You are a boat on top of that stream – you command the wind. Go where you will."

Desmond shakes his head. "I don't understand."

Altaïr chuckles and reaches out his hand. He really must be at least couple of days into his entombment in the vault under what remains of Masyaf – his hand shakes and his skin is parched of colour. "When we call for you," he says quietly. "You needn't answer."

Desmond shivers a bit as Altaïr's fingers brush against his cheek – and right through his skin. He must be in his golden ghost form, then – not really material enough for Altaïr to touch. Thankfully, Altaïr isn't a Piece of Eden – the attempted touch won't kill either of them.

"Do you have a name?" Altaïr asks. "The whispers of the Apple speak of you as the Conclusion, the Consequence and the Ending, and many other terrible things – but none that are actually names."

"It's Desmond. My name is Desmond."

"Desmond," Altaïr repeats softly, it sounds like something from another language when he says it. "I am very sorry for you, Desmond. In much wisdom there is much grief. He who increaseth knowledge… increaseth sorrow."

"Those are Al Mualim's words," Desmond says uneasily.

"They are from scripture," Altaïr corrects and chuckles weakly, waving his fingers through Desmond's hood and then lowering his hand tiredly to join its twin in his lap. "We assassins believe that… the truth is worth pain and sacrifice, and that it should be followed, appreciated for what it is, never mind the source. I hope you too hold this to be true…"

His voice is fading now and the stab of pain Desmond feels in his throat very nearly strangles him, it's so strong. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but only manages a choked noise of objection, barely louder than a whimper.

Altaïr smiles and it's without sadness, without pain. He's only tired now. "You have…a long road ahead of you yet," he whispers. "And more lessons to be learned from mistakes and failures… but learn you will… in time… Desmond…"

Desmond loses the ability to breathe and bows his head miserably, almost resting his forehead on Altaïr's knees. He says nothing as Altaïr's breathing slows, rasps in his throat, and finally falls even – slumber before death.

"I will make it right," Desmond chokes out against Altaïr's robes. "Somehow. I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry_."

Altaïr doesn't answer – he's almost gone now.

"Everything that's good in me," Desmond whispers and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, "began with you. Requiescat in pace, Altaïr."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't satisfied with last chapter so I decided to stab myself in the heart.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day :D


	11. Chapter 11

In the end the solution to Masyaf is simple and somehow harder with each attempt he tries it.

He just needs to do nothing. Make sure that in Temple of Solomon Altaïr sees and senses nothing and that history continues on it's original track there, not a ripple in that pond caused by his time travelling. And then later, when Altaïr has the apple and Al Mualim is dead and Altaïr has ahead of him decades of studies and experiments with the Piece of Eden… do nothing.

Desmond fails at that, several times. When Altaïr tries to summon him like he's a demon he's conjuring from the pits of hell, it's hard not to answer. How Altaïr always figures out he's something that _can_ be summoned and how he always gets just fearful and arrogant enough to try it, Desmond doesn't know, but it happens time and time again.

"What are you?" Altaïr demands. He's in his thirties this time, Sef has just been born and Darim is three years old and Altaïr is more worried than ever about what future holds for those who he brings into the world.

Why he keeps summoning the thing that the Apple tells him to fear and hate, Desmond has no idea – but that's young Altaïr for you. Impulsive and even now slightly arrogant, and with the Apple in hand as much as he fears the thing, he feels all powerful. It's not a terribly good combination.

"I want nothing from you, Altaïr," Desmond says, weary – still a little too broken on the inside by Altaïr's death, though it wasn't this Altaïr, not even the Altaïr before him. They're all the same even when minute shifts in time make them different and even now it feels like Altaïr has died. Will die, always did die. "I want no harm to come to you or any you consider yours. If you just leave me well enough alone, nothing will change."

"Precisely, if I do nothing, then I will have done _nothing_. I see you do terrible things and I feel it's my fault," Altaïr grits out, clutching onto the Apple. It's glowing in his hand as it exerts power to keep Desmond there… and to manipulate Altaïr's mind.

"You see what they make you see," Desmond says, and has said, several times now. "The pieces of Eden are connected to those that made them and they were made for a purpose. To bend the minds of men, to enslave them, to manipulate them. As much knowledge as they give you, they're still tools to abuse."

And watching the thing abusing Altaïr over and over again and not being able to do anything about it… it's getting harder. And it's not only that, but knowing that it _has to_ happen and it will happen, whether he tries to stop it or not is even worse. The Apple will explode and it will remain and still twist Altaïr around all his life.

All things considered… Altaïr comes out of it all remarkably intact. Changed, but still himself in the end when he locks himself in that vault and goes gentle into that good night.

"You mean the ones that came before," Altaïr says, pacing back and forth behind his desk and Desmond drags his mind back to _this_ timeline. "You are their enemy."

Desmond sighs. "They made me one," he says. "Because I stand for what you stand; protecting the lives and the free will of men. And they don't."

Altaïr casts him a look of confusion and suspicion and so Desmond weaves the story again. About the sun, the flare and it's reoccurrence in the future. By this point he's sort of figured out a way to tell the story in way that Altaïr understands it – though it helps that Altaïr is few years into his forays into the Piece of Eden. By this point he knows a bit more about stars and planets and stellar mechanisms than the average man of his time.

"When I see it in my mind, it is your doing," Altaïr murmurs.

"No one can control the Sun," Desmond laughs a little. "It's hundreds of thousands of times bigger than Earth and it's hundred million miles away. Even Those That Came Before couldn't do anything to the Sun; it's too big and too powerful."

Altaïr shakes in his head. "Then no one is to blame?" he demands. "That can't be."

"Things happen because they happen, sometimes there just isn't anyone to blame," Desmond answers and shakes his head. "It's what we do about it that matters. Those That Came Before want us to use their technologies, like that Apple there, and rely on them to save us – and then give them our thanks and worship after. I think not. I'd rather humans save themselves."

"So you would leave us to our fate?!"

Desmond sighs again. "That's not what I said," he says in frustration and presses that into his mind. That wording doesn't work – not when Altaïr is screening through his every word for proof of his supposed ill intentions. "Humans are capable of technologies of their own. They can create their own salvation. And it will come without conditions attached, without consequences – without payment in our blood to the First Civilisation after."

Altaïr paces back and forth a moment again, his eyes wild as he tries to struggle against the pull of the Apple and his own intellect. The man overcomes the Apple's influences eventually, Desmond has seen that, but right now he's still so new to it that it has a sway over him and so he has doubts.

"Our blood," Altaïr then says and looks at him. "But you are one of _them_."

"No, I'm not. They come from the past – I come from the future. I'm human," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I _was_ human. I was the one they charged with the sacrifice to save the planet and enslavement of all humanity. Afterwards, I've taken issue with that. I refuse to save the world for only it to be doomed – I want to preserve human life and human liberty _both._ "

Altaïr shakes his head and looks away, his face twisted into a scowl of confusion and irritation. He's fighting the Apple's influence now, and Desmond watches it carefully – he's getting better at saying the things Altaïr needs to hear to beat back the fear, but it doesn't always work. Sometimes, Altaïr bounces back right into the fear, into accusing him of manipulating him. They'd destroyed Masyaf a couple of times like that.

This time he beats it – Altaïr sets the Apple down onto his desk, and after moment of struggle, releases his hand from it. Its glow vanishes, leaving them in sudden, natural darkness. They're released and As Altaïr blinks the haze of confusion off his eyes, Desmond releases a breath.

He's making progress here, he thinks. It would be better if Altaïr didn't know and didn't summon him, but for what it's worth… he's making progress.

"Tell me more," Altaïr demands.

Desmond nods. "What do you want to know?"

The discussion lasts for hours as Desmond answers every question Altaïr has in as much detail as he can – though for lot of them he has no answers at all. He isn't expert of stellar mechanics and as much as he's learned about the Pieces of Eden, he's not an expert on them either. Now does he know much about the First Civilisation – all he knows of them are their recordings and their warnings, their manipulations. It's not a very satisfying or thorough litany of facts.

Still, he tells Altaïr everything as well as he can, until there is nothing left to say. And when Altaïr is finally satisfied, Desmond goes back in time and tries to stop the whole discussion from ever happening.

* * *

 

The more he does the more there is for Altaïr to see through the Apple, that's the problem. With the Apple Altaïr can see the future Desmond is changing and because of that there is no hiding it from him, no matter how much or how little Desmond actually tampers with the past. The Apple refuses to let him slip by unnoticed, dragging him back to Altaïr again and again so that the Apple can try and destroy them all.

It would be nice if the damn thing finally got the clue that they can't be destroyed, all it's doing is making a mess of things – but it doesn't. As much as they can see into the future, Desmond is starting to think the First Civilisation can only see into _one_ future, really. As many potential futures and possible versions of events there are, the Apples and the First Civilisation are locked down by linear time. And as much as it's set in stone, it's also changeable.

They're so used to changing the timeline and the timeline actually _changing_ for them, that what Desmond is and what he's doing doesn't quite compute for their version of the Calculation. They don't see the looping time – just the one strand of it currently in process where Desmond has made who knows what changes and the conclusion they lead to. And right now the future still leads into destruction – the Earth is still doomed, one way or the other, because Desmond still doesn't have the solution yet.

At least that's what he thinks is happening, it's the only explanation as to why they keep trying to do things that _don't work_. They don't know that time is temporary for Desmond – these futures will never happen.

It's fucking tiresome at any rate.

"Can't you just stop," he demands the Apple once, in Temple of Solomon, as Altaïr runs and Kadar dies and Malik is fighting to get the Apple and get the way. "I know it probably looks bad on your end, but you're not helping!"

Of course, it does nothing. Malik runs with the Apple, Altaïr shames himself, proves himself through the Hunt for the Nine, and eventually becomes the Mentor with the Apple in hand – and Desmond eventually finds himself summoned in front of him, to explain himself again and again.

He's just about done with it. And maybe it's time he tries to _do_ something about it. Not about Altaïr – but the damn Apple.

* * *

 

"Desmond?"

Desmond opens his eyes and glances around to see the Animus sensors at each sides of his face. He's embodied in the Hideout – Rebecca is leaning over him, look of worry on her face while Shaun stands on Desmond's other side, arms folded and face stiff with worry.

"How long was I out?" Desmond asks. It's been… a while for him. He remembers being connected to the Animus at first – there was the hud, the Database entries – but it sort of faded away when he went into the white-grey of the Algorithm. Had he been connected to the Animus?

"It's been… a while," Rebecca says, watching him worriedly.

Desmond blinks and then pushes himself up to sit. No life support this time, so it hasn't been days probably. "What happened?" he asks.

"We were rather hoping you'd tell us, Desmond," Shaun says with hint of the usual derision in his voice, but not enough to hide the unease. "What did you see in there?"

Desmond looks up at him and then glances at Rebecca – at the screens on her desk. "You could see, didn't you?" he asks. "You can keep track of me in the Animus. You record everything."

"We don't know what we saw," Rebecca says slowly. "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

It's a trick, somehow. A trap. Desmond runs a hand over his face, his right hand – healthy and whole – and sighs. They'd seen _something_ , then, but couldn't make sense of it. What would it look like on their end? Time travel is not very reasonable conclusion to land on, even with evidence. They'd have to explain it away somehow with something bit more realistic. As Animus glitch maybe? Or as Desmond being able to manipulate the Animus?

Desmond frowns against his fingers, rubbing them over his forehead and hums. There'd been a time when Shaun at least had suspected him of being Templar plant or at least programmed by them, like Daniel Cross.

"I'm going to have a shower," Desmond settles on saying and stands up. Rebecca and Shaun exchange nervous, uneasy looks but don't try to stop him and Desmond heads out unhindered, shrugging his hoodie off as he goes.

It's weird, being embodied again. He's getting used to the whole golden ghost thing – sometimes he can even see what he looks like in Altaïr's eyes, the shimmer of light with no source, with shapes of his limbs and fingers and clothes just barely clear enough to see. After so long of that – he's not sure how long now, he's gone round the circle with Altaïr a lot now – being in a body feels… heavy.

He's forgotten what it feels like to actually… _feel_ things. Like gravity dragging him down and what air feels as it's being sucked down through his nostrils what it feels to touch cold metal of a handle and step under the warm pour of water.

"I should do this more often," Desmond murmurs and presses his forehead against the cold tiles of the shower, sighing. Got water and cold ceramic, his toes curling against the floor tiles as the water pours down his back. So many sensations he'd just flat out forgotten.

So much time spend trying to explain future and time and gods to Altaïr, he's starting to forget what being human is like. It's probably not a good thing.

"… _We'll wait until Lucy gets here_ ," Rebecca voice says, her voice distorted by distance and Desmond opens his eyes. Everything is dark and unearthly and through the darkness, he can see them. Two blue outlines through the walls and down the corridor, in the main office. " _We'll show her the recordings; see what she makes of them. Desmond glitched out the Animus back in Abstergo, this might be just more of that_."

" _Did that look like a glitch to you_?" Shaun demands. " _Pardon me, Rebecca, I know I'm not quite the coder you are, but I'm pretty sure glitches don't_ talk."

" _It might be that Desmond is somehow projecting into the Animus – he reacts weirdly with it_ ," Rebecca says, though she sounds nervous. " _There's something just a little off with how he communicates with the Animus, the feedback loop is… it's heavy. The amount of data Desmond puts out with every move; it's almost too much for Baby to handle. And we don't know that much about this tech yet – there hasn't exactly been any peer reviewed trials for this stuff_."

" _So what you're saying – Desmond projected his inner… whatever that was_?" Shaun scoffs. " _Did you_ hear _the dialogue_?"

" _Yes, it was very realistic – but so are people's dreams, Shaun, and hallucinations_ ," Rebecca says. " _People's brains can do weird things and Desmond's is particularly weird. It could nothing but that. I mean what else could it be – it's not like Desmond actually can talk to Altaïr. Altaïr died hundreds of years ago! Beside what they talked about was all…_ "

Shaun says nothing for a moment while Desmond leans elbow against the wet wall and stares at their outlines. Rebecca speaks again, frustrated. " _Well, what do you think it was_?"

Shaun sighs. " _I don't know_ ," he says. " _But it doesn't make sense and I don't like things that don't make sense_."

" _Yeah I know_ ," Rebecca says. " _Which is why we wait until Lucy gets here. Hopefully she'll make sense of it._ "

They fall quiet then, turning back to their stations and back to their work. Desmond watches them for a moment and then blinks the golden glimmer out of his eyes, sighing and then pressing his fingers against his eyelids.

Apparently he can see through walls now. Great. Just what he needs.

So they'd seen his talk with Altaïr. Which one of them, though – the first one or the last one? One from in between? All of them? And… whatever they had seen, did it even matter? Which timeline is he on, right now, the one where Masyaf was destroyed or the one where it survived? Or some of the ones in between, with Altaïr's many interrogations marking the time in between?

And now Lucy is coming, probably alerted by Rebecca with whatever it was they'd seen in his head. That's just doubly great.

Desmond finishes his shower, making no particular effort to make it fast and after drying himself up and pulling his clothes back on, he heads not to the office, but to the storage area. There, for good hour or so, he climbs the boxes and jumps around and tries to feel human again.

* * *

 

"I don't know, Desmond," Rebecca says when he asks to go back to the Animus. "You were in there a while and there was something weird about the data – I think you should take the rest of the day off and get some sleep. You look like you need it."

"I could do another hour," Desmond offers. "It was a bit weird, I just want to… I don't know, make sense of it? Come on, just for a moment." Just long enough to slip back out of his body and into the time stream – something he's not sure he can do on his own. He's not sure he _wants_ try, either.

Rebecca looks up to him, her face scrunched up in worry. "Desmond… there are records of the Animus having addictive effect on the user," she says warningly. "It definitely has its side effects too. You should let your mind rest a bit."

"Take a break, Desmond," Shaun says from his computers, not looking back. "We've got work to do anyway, you know, _actual_ work, for _actual_ Assassins."

Desmond glances at his tense back and then sighs. Okay, Shaun is in the _Desmond is a Templar plant_ camp, then. Great. "Okay," he sighs. "Do I have an actual bed here, or am I sleeping on the gurney again?"

Rebecca blinks at him, confused. "Gurney?" she asks.

"The one where I had my coma on," Desmond clarifies.

Now Shaun turns around to look at him strangely.

"Desmond," Rebecca says slowly. "You have a room – you've… not been in a coma, not that I know? Was that something that happened in Abstergo?"

Desmond stares at her for a moment, and then glances at Shaun. "Right," he says. "Um. I'll just…" he shakes his head and turns away. "Yeah you're right, I obviously need some rest. I'm going to turn in for the day."

"Desmond," Rebecca says, her voice very calm despite the mild panic on her eyes. "If you're having any kind of–"

"It's fine, I'm _fine_ ," Desmond says. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night."

He can feel their stares nailed to his back as he makes his escape. It's trial and error to find his room – the one he had the first go around is Shaun's here, and Shaun's room is Rebecca's. In the end, the room where they have his clothes – and the utter lack of other personal effects – is the one where Lucy had slept in, which is kind of weird but okay. It's not like Lucy has slept there _yet_ in this time. Right?

Desmond sinks onto the bed with a sigh and cradles his head in his hands for a moment. One thing he didn't miss about being embodied – the headaches.

The timeline here is shifting too, it seems. It makes sense that it would – he's making changes to the past, of course they would affect the future. But he'd thought he'd… _be_ there for those changes. Now, the past, _his actual physical past_ has shifted behind him, and he doesn't know how. Apparently here he didn't lapse into coma – no catheter shenanigans here, thank god. But if not, then how is he _here_ , in the Hideout, and how is it that Lucy _isn't_?

"Fuck temporality," Desmond groans and falls back to lay on the bed. For a moment he stares up at the ceiling, metal speckled with rust with a weird stain just little past the door. Whoever had owned this place before the Assassins had made it their Hideout had not been kind to the place.

Everything looks so much more solid through human eyes, Desmond thinks. When he's travelling everything is so fleeting, humans and material things all so… temporary. Here, everything looks much more concrete and real and hard. Here, time moves at natural pace and age and decay doesn't happen in blink of an eye.

Desmond sighs and closes his eyes. Tomorrow he'd convince Rebecca to let him in the Animus. Then, he'd head over to 1499 and have a little chat with Minerva.

With that decided, he drapes an arm over his eyes and tries to remember how to fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I've played like 3 AC games and don't know what I'm doing but Internet spoiled things for me and then
> 
> (If I get like canonical background info wrong, feel free to tell me. The future is all up in the wind though.)


End file.
